


Whist Partners and Winning Hands

by DaughterofElros



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/F, F/M, Georgian Period, M/M, Regency, Regency Romance, technically pre-regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28063539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofElros/pseuds/DaughterofElros
Summary: Lord Alexander Manes doesn't enjoy the way his newly inherited wealth and title make him the focus of society's scheming for suitable marriage matches. He feels anything but suitable, and isn't looking to be wed. But the balls he's pressured to attend suddenly become a lot more bearable once he meets Lord Michael Guerin on a terrace...
Relationships: Isabel Evans/Rosa Ortecho, Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 44
Kudos: 73
Collections: Roswell New Mexico Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is unabashedly pro-queer happiness, but it's situated in a real time period that was not queer-friendly in its laws and attitudes. As such, the story does incorporate some elements of period-typical homophobia, including discussion of the legal consequences that LGBTQ+ people faced in the Georgian and Regency Eras. If you'd like more information about content warnings before proceeding, check the end notes.

Alexander rather detests attending balls. They’re hot, of course, the press of bodies even in the grandest of rooms creates a stifling heat, and while ladies are afforded at least the small comfort of fans, Gentlemen are permitted no such refuge. In addition, Alexander is not an accomplished dancer. He’s aware that he dances passably well, but truly, what grace he possesses in riding, shooting, sailing, or fencing abandons him entirely on the dance floor. Often enough, the women tire of him quickly and set their eyes on more genteel, softer-footed pursuits. Such has always been the limited benefit of being the younger son. Now that he is wealthy in his own right, however, he finds himself pursued constantly. He has, apparently, come to be considered quite the catch. What makes it even more frustrating is how anyone who realizes that he isn’t overly fond of the pursuit glances quickly at his leg and he has to watch as pity and understanding creeps into their expression. It takes all of his considerable willpower not to bite out that he never did like dancing, even before he learned the horrors of the battlefield. It’s not that he can’t manage the steps— it’s that he dislikes the feeling of so many eyes upon him.

He bows gratefully to his latest dance partner, and catches his brother’s eye. Gregory grins wildly as the couples rearrange themselves for the next dance, dutifully partnered with his wife’s youngest sister. He’s well aware of how much Alexander detests dancing, and takes a brother’s perverse joy in the discomfort. Alexander narrows his eyes in return, which only increases his brother’s amusement. He can afford to be amused, Alexander thinks, ducking through the doors to the terrace before he can be cornered once again. Gregory is married now, and to a lovely girl. He is not required to fend off advances from young ladies (or more often, their mothers, aunts, and grandmamas) hoping to make a suitable match.

The truth is, he has no desire to be wed. He is also significantly less suitable than any of the ladies seem to perceive, for reasons he is careful never to share. Still, if his comparatively plain dress and even more mediocre dancing does not dissuade them, nothing will. His bachelor uncle’s lands and money, held in fee simple and bequeathed in largest part to his favorite nephew now make Alexander something of a desirable get, and now that he has drawn the notice of the ton, he fears he will not easily extricate himself from the social web that is the London season. 

The cool night air of the terrace provides a welcome reprieve, a chance to breathe deeply without the suffocating layers of olfactory stimulus to be found indoors. Here, the scent of grass and a handful of garden flowers mingle but faintly with the smoke from the lamps, and as he moves down the terrace there is the hint of a breeze to cool his face. The music and buzz of conversation is fainter here as well, and he can actually hear himself think. He breathes deeply, allowing himself to relax as he leans against the stone balustrade. He finds it immensely soothing to have a moment alone. That presumption is perhaps why he startles so alarmingly when a voice breaks his concentration.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Alexander turns sharply to catch sight of the speaker. It’s another man, nearly as tall as Alexander himself. He carries himself with infinitely more aristocratic swagger, however, and his features are decidedly more arresting than Alexander’s own. In truth, he’s rather breathtaking, and Alexander has to struggle not to gaze at him too hungrily in that first moment.

“Out here at least,” Alexander agrees, scrambling for his words only to realize that it wasn’t precisely the most polite thing he could have said. The man laughs and saunters toward him nonetheless.

“Not much fond of dancing then?” His tone is sympathetic.

“Not much, no.” Alexander allows ruefully. “Though I suppose being out here instead of in the ballroom makes that rather apparent. Do you dislike dancing as well?” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Not at all.” The other man replies easily. “I adore dancing. It’s the best way to converse with all the ladies without having to commit to speaking with only one and finding that you have nothing to discuss but the scandalous rise in the cost of lace. Scintillating though that topic may naturally be.” His grin suggests that he finds a perverse amusement in his own statements.

“Then why aren’t you inside?” Alexander voices the question before realizing how impolite it must sound.

The man sighs, his lips twisting into a self-deprecating grin. “Alas, we have come to the point in the evening where the mothers and dowager aunts are desperately seeking the most favorable bachelors for the young ladies to dance with in hopes of making husbands. I’m afraid that I’m not much desired in that regard, and there’s only so much flirting that can be done with married ladies before my tarnish wears off on their reputation as well, so I’ve learned to take my leave for a time. Tonight seemed a perfect night for a terrace walk.”

“Your tarnish?” Alexander can’t help but ask.

“I’m afraid I’ve cultivated something of a reputation for myself.” The other man admits with an easy grin. “So much so that it seems I have ruined women I’ve never met and amassed gambling debts in games I never played or indeed, in establishments located in countries where I have never even set foot- at least, if the gossip of the ton is to be believed.”

“How accomplished you must feel,” Alexander jests. The other man laughs at that, smile wide and inviting, his head thrown back to reveal a hint of pale flesh above his cravat.

“Indeed.” He agrees and then observes, “I think I rather like you.” He offers his hand. “Lord Guerin, at your service.” And of course, Alexander thinks as he takes the proffered hand, that makes a great deal of sense. He could hardly be considered an expert on the rumors that swirl through ballrooms and clubs here in London- has always held himself rather apart from all of that- but even he has heard murmurs of Lord Guerin and his exploits.

“Lord Manes,” he introduces himself. The words still feel new and uncertain in his mouth. “But of course, my friends call me Alexander.”

“If that was an invitation, then you must promise to call me Michael,” Guerin replies smoothly. Meanwhile, Alexander is increasingly aware that their hands remain firmly clasped. He can feel the strength in Michael’s grip, the warmth of his flesh despite the barrier of their gloves. The wind ruffles the curl of his golden hair, worn natural and slightly shorter than even the new wigs that are now fashionable. Alexander imagines that fashion will be inspired to catch up. That warmth takes his breath away a bit, though he is practiced enough at concealing his reactions that he doubts it shows. Still, it is unusual for a touch to linger so long, and it causes him to wonder if there is anything to be read into it. Certainly Guerin has quite the reputation with women, and normally Alexander would discount him immediately for that interest. But there’s something in the way his eyes linger that makes Alexander wonder if the scandal of his affairs is limited to ladies alone. He can’t deny that his heart beats faster at the thought, however impossible. It occurs to him that he has yet to respond.

“Gladly.” He returns, dropping Guerin’s hand and hoping that his hesitation is not taken for reticence. 

“I feel obliged to warn you that an acquaintance with yours truly is not always met with great esteem by the marriageable set. Or at least by their relations,” the young man cautions.

“I’m sure I’ll survive, as I’m not looking for a wife.” Alexander allows wryly. He catches the slight rise of Michael’s eyebrows and realizes what he has nearly alluded to. “Not presently, at least.” He rushes to add.

“Not yet ready to settle down?” Michael smirks. “I see the appeal there.”

“Something like that.” Alexander murmurs, staring out into the night. The truth is, he relishes the thought of partnership and a settled, unexciting life. He’s just never been able to envision a woman at his side. Not when he knows that his station notwithstanding, he has little to offer any lady beyond his esteem and chaste affection, and he does not know how to find a woman for whom that might suffice. He’s certain that it would be unfair even to try, so he has never sought a bride. Michael allows him only a moment of melancholy, however.

“In that case, I suggest that we take a stroll through Lady Vexgrave’s garden. I’m told she has cultivated some lovely varieties of night-blooming flowers, the hunt for which might keep us from the shoppers of the Marriage Mart for considerable time. I’m certain that even with the dreadful shortage of Gentlemen to dance with, they’ll be able to spare us for a set.” And truthfully, though Alexander can think of several reasons why the idea is unwise (most of which relate to the giddy, bubbling sensation in his chest whenever he glances in Lord Guerin’s direction) he has no desire to refuse. 

The garden is impeccably maintained, the path through it surprisingly well illuminated by wood-burning braziers in a display of casual extravagance. They speak as they walk, the sound of pale stones crunching underfoot providing a pleasant backdrop to Michael’s tales of his adventures on the Continent. Each becomes more improbable than the next, as the man clearly has a flair for making even the most mundane adventure sound diverting, but Alexander can’t bring himself to mind. It’s the most he’s smiled in some time, perhaps in years. He cannot recall ever having felt so at ease with someone so rapidly. To a point, he believes the feeling to be mutual.

By unspoken agreement, they make the round of the formal gardens once, and then begin a second lap to allow for the completion of a tale where one of Guerin’s traveling companions had attempted to woo a young lady against her father’s will, with the aid of Michael’s calling card alongside his note. When the message was intercepted, the girl’s father was incensed, and Guerin’s entire travelling party had been forced to withdraw posthaste, though rather still inebriated. “And so you see,” he explains, “by the time I returned home, word had spread before us and the county was convinced that I had ruined all three of the Gentleman’s daughters and been forced to fight a duel for their honor. When in truth, I had spent only seconds in the particular lady’s presence, and she had no siblings at all. Though I can’t claim to be entirely blameless either,” he concedes. “Allowing Alfred use of my card was a foolish enough decision in its own right. I suppose in a sense that I rather got what I was due. Though I could have done without leaving behind the hat I’d just purchased. I rather suspect the old curmudgeon used it for shooting practice. Certainly, it was never returned.” Though the light is low, Alexander can still catch enough of a twinkle in Guerin’s eye to know that he’s not truly overmuch upset.

Alexander takes it upon himself to regale Michael with the tale of his own hat-losing incident in his youth that had involved a cow, a picnic, his brothers’ mischievous interference, and a thoroughly distraught governess. He lacks Guerin’s masterful ability to weave a tale, but nonetheless, succeeds in making the other man laugh. Guerin looks marvelous when he laughs, and it makes Alexander’s mouth go dry to observe it. He hopes that the dimness of the lights is enough to hide the flush he feels in his cheeks.

And yet, whatever momentary curiosity there was on the terrace that had made him wonder if Guerin’s proclivities tended more toward his own, it is not as much in evidence here. Nothing but utmost propriety can be attributed to the pair of them. Alexander is both disappointed and relieved. For all that he is captivated by this young man he has just now befriended, it is beyond foolishness to contemplate mutual interest, and madness to envision any sort of liaison. The danger of blackmail alone is too great, and that is the least troublesome of the potential outcomes. Each time he yearns for more than a cheerful friendship with another man, his late Uncle’s admonishments and stern advice ring in his ears. He knows better than to be looking so obviously at another young man, even if that young man had, in fact, invited him on a moonlit stroll of the gardens. Such presumptions invite entirely too much risk with little promise of reward.

Still, he cannot help but feel a tiny stab of jealousy when they surprise two young lovers sharing a kiss in the corner of the garden. As they flee, looking altogether mortified, he envies them the moment of passion that they were allowed- and the fact that while the young man begs them to say nothing of what they have seen for fear of disapproval, the discovery of their unchaperoned yet otherwise trivial dalliance will never land them at trial.

“Well.” Guerin observes, watching them go with his hands clasped behind his back, “Their secret is safe with me. If I were to breathe a word of it, no doubt I would be the gentleman implicated by the time the rumor reaches the fifth ear.” Alexander can’t help but snort. “I suppose we’d best return though,” Michael continues. “They will begin to miss us if we abandon the ball too long. This was quite diverting though. I’ve enjoyed your company Alexander.”

“And I yours.” He finds himself saying. “We ought do it again.” The steps to the terrace are nearly upon them now.

“I would enjoy that.” Michael concedes as they mount the stairs, and it’s impossible to suppress the tiny thrill that those words bring.

  
The ball is far from over, of course. There are more sets to dance, and conversation to be engaged in before the night comes to a close and he can return home. These entertainments are expected whenever one is in London, but he honestly doesn’t know which he finds less enjoyable-- balls where he has to dance for hours, or sessions in the House of Lords where he now has to listen to an endless parade of Tory sentiments. He’s careful not to complain aloud, or to let his expression settle into distaste, even as the discomfort becomes more physical as the night wears on.

He at least has the good fortune to get to dance one of the remaining sets with Gregory’s wife Mary, whom he generally finds delightful company. She has always been sympathetic regarding his reluctance to wed, and is kind enough to hand him off to her friend Lucretia, who is also married and therefore infinitely more delightful as a dance partner than Miss Kitty Frye, who has just been presented and has been casting meaningful glances at him from behind her fan with increasing frequency all night.

He catches sight of Michael again from throughout the evening. Each time, Guerin is of course conversing rather flirtatiously with a lady (even Miss Frye, whom he leads to the dance floor, much to the chagrin of her Mama) and Alexander’s heart sinks a little. And yet, Guerin seems to flirt with them all equally- from the most innocent young thing there, to vivacious widows rumored to take handsome young lovers, and even to the Dowager Countess of Howard who must be at least eighty if she is a day- without showing any one of them special favor. A flicker of something too fragile even to be called hope dances in him, and he quickly dampens it to turn his attention back to hear the comment that Lucretia is making.

  
Hours later, after Morin has helped him dress for bed and he’s left alone with his thoughts, he still can’t banish thoughts of the young Lord Guerin from his mind. He finds that he has a dozen questions about the man, few of which are likely to be answered. Despite passing a pleasant hour, the fact that they’ve never met before now likely indicates that they will meet infrequently in the future. The likelihood of becoming better acquainted is not high, unless he should endeavor to seek the other man out. That option, he knows, he should not undertake. He would be wise to forget his distraction with Lord Guerin, as he has made himself forget other distractions over the years. He promises himself that in the light of day, any further thoughts of Lord Guerin will be brief and of the utmost propriety. Certainly, he will not be thinking of the pleasing shape of the man’s lips.

And yet, he thinks, stretching his arms over his head and closing his eyes, it is not yet daylight, and he shall think of whatever he pleases as he drifts toward sleep.

He has little knowledge that only a few streets away, Guerin is engaged in much the same activity.

  
For all of Alexander’s resolution not to pursue Lord Guerin’s company, their next meeting comes only three days after their first. He and Gregory are engaged to meet Val at Brooks’s for libation and perhaps a game of Whist. When they enter, Val rises to greet them and introduces them around to a few of the other Gentlemen. As the last of the greetings are exchanged, he ushers them to a table, calling for a bottle of wine.

“I have invited a fourth for our game, yes?” he explains, his words still tinged with the accent of his snowy homeland. “He returns any moment. Ah yes. He he is. You have met Lord Guerin, I think?” And indeed, the Gentleman standing in the doorway is none other than Michael, in less formal dress than last Alexander had seen him of course, but cutting no less fine a figure.

“We have, yes.” He manages as Michael’s smile slides toward a sly smirk. Alexander really, really needs to stop finding things like that attractive. Or wanting to read anything into it.

“Indeed.” Michael responds, gaze resting fully on Alexander for a second before turning to Gregory. “Though I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance before.”

“My brother, the Honourable Gregory Manes.” Alexander makes the introduction, still aware of the discomfort in introducing his elder brother as someone of lower social status than himself. It is altogether too often now that Gregory is presumed the younger of them, though he claims that the assumption does not perturb him in the least. But then, Gregory has always been a rather exceptional fellow.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Gregory supplies with a small bow that Guerin returns in kind. “I hear you are to join us for whist?”

“If you’ll have me.” Guerin responds while they all take their seats. “Though I feel obliged to warn you that I have somewhat of an affinity for the game. You may wish to keep your wagers modest if we are all to part the table as friends.”

Alexander inclines his head, though he is not much concerned. He tends always to keep his bets modest, even is sometimes ridiculed by the company about him. He loves a good wager as much as the next man, but it is his position that as Uncle’s fortune- now his- was not won in gambling, neither should it be lost to the same. Not much of it, at least. It is for the same reasons that he favors games such as Whist, which require a measure of skill, rather than games that lie more heavily with chance like Faro and Hazard, despite the fact that the latter entertainments enjoy more favor at White’s these days.

It is soon apparent that Michael was not exaggerating his skill at the gaming table, and Alexander is more than a little pleased that they ended up as partners. Gregory and Val play credibly, but he and Michael are perfectly suited from the start. It’s as though they can nearly read each other’s minds, perfectly anticipate the other man’s play. Alexander has to admit that he’s never known quite so effective a Whist partner in his life.

Of course, the game at hand is hardly the only wager they discuss. There is apparently a standing wager as to whether Lords Frampton and Woolroth will engage in a shouting match over political differences, and Michael and Val make a bet as to when Vicompte Roussel will find himself betrothed (Val thinks the end of the season, Michael predicts merely a fortnight). There’s some strange wager involving Lord Long, a newspaperman, and a chocolate pot that Alex quite loses the thread of, as he find himself distracted by the long reach of Michael’s arm as he takes up the bottle of wine and pours himself another glass with careful, precise movements. And then, a few hours later when Frampton and Woolroth have once more agreed to disagree and have settled back with their papers and Guerin has handed over a shilling, Val says something that catches Alexander’s attention.

“I am reminded now. I hear there is a bet in the book at White’s to the sum of 50 pounds between Valenti and Evans as to when you yourself will be wed, Guerin. Evans holds that you shall be married within two years, while Valenti has taken the long view with three.” He tosses his card to the table. Play comes to Alexander, and he is so distracted looking to Guerin’s response that he nearly misplays, laying the proper card just in time. Michael laughs.

“I dare say they’ll both be disappointed, then. I have no intention of taking a wife.” Alexander doesn’t think that he’s imagining that Guerin’s gaze flickers to him for a brief second as he adds, “not presently, at least.”

There can be no mistaking that there is significance in the glance and the fact that Guerin has echoed precisely the words that Alexander had uttered to him just a few evenings hence. And no mistake that the message was meant for Alexander’s ears, as neither Gregory nor Val would recognize it. And yet, what meaning does Guerin seek to imply? Is he merely intending to commiserate with another confirmed bachelor, as might be completely innocent? Or does his message hold a hint of some further meaning that Alexander should not even dare to contemplate? Confused, he lowers his eyes to his cards. The next time he glances up though, he catches Michael watching him, eyes flicking back to the cards the second his gaze is noticed. Alexander’s heart beats momentarily faster.

They game well into the night, and indeed, into the early morning hours. By the time that they play their last hand, Alexander and Michael have emerged the sound victors, and it has been agreed that the victors shall graciously host the losing parties at dinner the following evening. Or to be more accurate, that Alexander shall be hosting the dinner, as the rooms which Guerin has taken until his rented townhouse is available are insufficient to entertain. Alexander is pleased to host, though Gregory jests (rightly enough) that it is the cook he and Mary have employed who will be called upon to provide the dinner. Alexander refuses to dignify this with a response.

He sleeps late the next morning, which is just as well as it gives him less time to reflect upon the fact that Guerin will be his guest in the evening. He attempts to put this thought from his mind, though he finds that, infuriatingly, thoughts of the man are rarely put far enough aside that they do not wander back. He is becoming quite uncomfortable with the infatuation he has been building. More than once, his mind has wandered in such an impropitious manner that a flush has warmed his cheeks. He hardly knows the man, so it seems altogether alarming that he has lost several minutes at a time in contemplation of the appealing curve of Guerin’s lips or speculation as to the nature of the form of his body beneath his clothing (though admittedly, his breeches leave little to the imagination, and his fine turn of calf is readily apparent to even the most proper observer.

In truth, he makes his way to the drawing room and enlists his sister-in-law’s help in arranging the dinner. Though there are only to be six of them at the table, Mary is eminently more adept at making dining arrangements than he, and is quite a fair hostess. She seems happy enough to assist in the matter, and he is deeply grateful for her.

He occupies himself throughout the day, attending to his correspondence, and briefly stopping in at the club to read the newspaper and speak to a few of the gentlemen there. In actuality though, he is impatiently counting down the hours until the dinner, and the chance to converse with Guerin again. The whole day seems rather reminiscent of the days of his youth, when he would count the torturous minutes that remained of his lessons, anxious to be very nearly anywhere else. Now it seems that he does not wish to be anywhere, and cannot wait to be home.

Dinner is an altogether proper affair, with conversation and wine flowing in equal measure. The only souring note is that he and Michael find themselves seated nearly as far apart as is physically possible, though the small size of the party means that they are still able to converse splendidly. It is discovered that they both share an interest in horses, as well as a general disinterest in wagers on political debates. Alex finds he would much rather achieve something than debate about it. Guerin bats the idea of political conversation away as well.

“If you wish for a lively discussion on horses, wines, cravats, or country estates, I’m your man. But as soon as the conversation turns to talk of Hessians or Jacobites, you might as well be talking to my horse. Lud, the horse may present a more nuanced view than I do.” Guerin jests to a roar of laughter from around the table.

“Our Alexander here is much the same.” Gregory puts in most helpfully. “Though perhaps not where the bit about cravats is concerned, you may have noticed.”

“A travesty, yes.” Guerin replies, the broad grin that curves his lips belying the seriousness of his tone. “I would be only too happy to provide tutelage on the subject. For the benefit of society of course.”

“How kind.” Alexander responds dryly, though he finds himself far from dismayed at being the butt of the joke. “I warn you that my tutors found me a most unruly student. Though far superior to my brother in that regard, if I might defend myself.”

“You wound me!” Gregory exclaims, though Alexander finds himself too focused on the glance he and Guerin share to engage in repartee, and conversation swiftly carries on to new topics.


	2. Chapter 2

It goes on like that for some weeks. He find himself drawn more and more into Lord Guerin’s presence, seeking him out whenever the opportunity arises. He shouldn’t. He know he shouldn’t. He risks so much if anyone even determines to whisper about his inclinations. But he can’t help wanting to be around Guerin. He’s circumspect, never allows himself to go too far. He takes appropriate delight in Lord Guerin’s company. They dine at clubs together, play cards, ride in Hyde Park. There are nights they endeavor to attend the same theatrical performances, and untold occasions at balls and dinner parties that they spend sipping port, ostensibly in the company of other gentlemen, but more often engaged in conversation of their own, others around them hardly seeming to matter. Alex comes very quickly to the point where Guerin is inevitably among the first thoughts he has upon waking each morning.

He feels, sometimes, that he’s intoxicated with Guerin’s presence.Their companionship is comfortable and assured even in silence. They can pass hours together during the day reading, or in quiet contemplation, and never feel anything by the greatest companionship. Which is not to say that they lack for conversation- he adores that as well. Guerin has a sharp, wicked sense of humor that the perfect counterpoint to Alex’s dryer, more sardonic wit. He finds that his wit often goes unnoticed. Remarks that no one else imagined there to be humor in send Guerin’s lips twitching though. Alex doesn’t think that he notices as much simply because his gaze is constantly straying to the other man’s lips. He can’t rule out the possibility though, because he certainly spends more time gazing at Guerin’s face than anyone else’s.

He doesn’t for a moment imagine that his ardor is returned in any similar capacity. Guerin has quickly become his dearest friend, and he would never jeopardize that camaraderie. It makes no matter that the man’s face that he imagines when he touches himself in the night is Lord Guerin’s, or that it’s his name that is bitten back when he spends in his own fist, cleans himself surreptitiously with a cloth at his wash basin. In daylight and candlelight alike, they are perfect friends. It’s only in the darkness that Alex allows himself to imagine anything different.

That’s not without cost, however. He finds himself wishing more and more for those imagined touches to be real, for the times that he glances at Guerin and meets his eye to be glances returned, and not just happenstance which must be excused and shaken off. He wishes that each of the casual gestures they share— Guerin’s finger on his elbow to subtly direct his attention, the firm brush across the shoulders of his coat to chastise Alexander’s valet for missing a bit of powder, the brush of their fingers when Guerin hands him a glass of brandy… it becomes harder and harder to take them for the pleasant, friendly gestures they are, and not wish they were the precursor to something more instead.

Guerin introduces him to his family, such as it is. His cousins, whom he insists are treated as siblings within the walls of his home, given the closeness with which they were raised in the country, accept Alexander with open arms, folding him into their lives simply because Guerin likes him well enough that it’s understood he should be treated as family. Guerin lets a townhouse only a few streets away, and invites his cousins to stay. Alex truly finds himself treated as one of the them in short order, invited to travel with them to the country during the summer, regaled with promises of picnics and rambles through the wooded grounds. He agrees to go shooting with Michael and Maxwell, but Isobel, Rosa, and Elizabeth gleefully claim his allegiance to captain a mock boating battle upon the lake within the first fortnight— apparently a tradition that dates back to their childhood days. He’s looking forward to it immensely. The prospect of idyll country revels, playing shuttlecock and dining out-of-doors, reading and playing backgammon indoors during summer rainstorms seems a truly magical invitation.

Which is why he’s furious with himself when he ruins all of it, hardly a week before they’re set to depart.

It’s another damned balcony at another damned ball. Though it’s entirely unfair for him to blame the stonework for anything more than creating the perfect alcove for him to make a fool of himself and send everything smashing to the ground.

He’d gone out there, just like the first night he’d met Guerin, because he tired of dancing and wanted to get away. Balls had gotten much less irritating once he’d had Elizabeth and Isobel, and Elizabeth’s sister Rosa willing to dance with him, keep the hungrier and more aggressive ladies of the ton from engaining all of his time. And Elizabeth is such an exceptional dancer that it was impossible not to feel like one walks upon air while dancing with her. But after the respite of taking a turn with each of them, as well as Rosa’s friend Maria, he finds himself once more tired of the crush, the heat of the room, the emptiness of conversation.

He seeks out fresh air, and in truth, heads to the terrace in hopes of perhaps finding Lord Guerin again. His hopes are rewarded, even because there, moonlight gleaming off his sapphire blue silk coat, is Guerin, leaning out on the stone rail, surveying the gardens. There’s an empty glass beside him- he’s been drinking more tonight than is customary for him. When he glances back toward Alexander, he seems melancholy. Alexander joins him at the rail.

“Had your fill of dancing?”

“Indeed,” Alex remarks dryly. “The ladies are lovely, but as usual, I seem to prefer the time at balls that I spend out on terraces with you to the time I actually spend in the ballroom.”

Guerin looks him over appraisingly, a hint of a smile ghosting across his lips.

“Then join me,” he asserts. Once Alex settles beside him at the rail he asks, “Is it the dancing you tire of, or the company indoors?”

“Can it not be both?” he asks. Guerin smiles.

“Certainly. I only sought to ascertain. I’m not overly familiar with the ladies role in the dance, but I know the steps. I’m quite sure that if you desired more dancing, I could execute a passable showing for your benefit.”

Alexander laughs, aware that their proximity makes their shoulders brush.

“I think that if we rely on my skills to lead, we’ll end up with quite a mess of things. Perhaps its you who should lead, my lord, and I attempt the lady’s part. It’s unlikely that I can butcher their steps any more than I’m inclined to do my own. And you are certainly the more skilled dancer,” Alex remarks.

Guerin stares at him for a moment, his expression indecipherable. He’ll speak eventually though, Alexander knows- once he’s had opportunity to arrange his thoughts to satisfaction. He doesn’t disappoint now.

“We could switch off,” he says finally. Alex chuckles.

“We could at that.” He glances out over the lawn, wishing that his mind would stop supplying him with images of a more scandalous nature that align frustratingly well with their conversation. He certainly doesn’t need to be caught wishing for innuendo. It’s bad enough that his eyes linger on Guerin’s hand, wishing it would move that scant inch that would allow it to graze his own. His wish is so fervent that he startles when it does happen, the shock of having that desire made manifest is an exquisite torment. He has to school his features to hide his elation, and when he dares to glace to Guerin’s face, he finds no answers there— Guerin is looking out over the lawn, his attention fixed on a figure in the distance. As Alex watches, he draws in on himself, tension running through him. Someone who didn’t know him well might not perceive it, but Alex can see it clearly. He dares to reach out, set his fingers along Guerin’s elbow.

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s Vicount Long down there.” Guerin nods in the direction he’s been gazing. “He and I… are not particular friends.”

“Why is that?” Alexander knows intellectually that some people don’t like Guerin, it’s the nature of society. But he can’t for a second understand that mindset. It’s simply incomprehensible to him, to not like Michael. Indeed, he has entirely the opposite issue. He admires and esteems Guerin too greatly.

“There was some business with unsettled debts from wagers, but that was cleared up a number of years ago. No, the true issue is his sister.”

“Is she one of the girls you were rumored to have debauched?”

“Worse.” Michael turns his head to look at him. “I killed her.”

He lets the words linger in the air for a long moment before he sighs. “Or I might as well have. It was a number of years ago now, when Miss Ortecho had her debut. There was an older gentleman, one who had a reputation in certain circles for being rather unsavory, and more than a little cruel. He set his sights on Rosa. They’re lovely, the Ortecho girls, but their family was impoverished. Rosa had little choice to accept the suit of any man who could afford to prop them up, and wouldn’t mind that she didn’t have a dowry. She ended up affianced to this man. But she was terrified of him. She’d heard things. Whispers. I had as well. He was a man quite friendly with Isobel’s late husband, before that man’s untimely death, and they were cut from similar cloth, which….gave cause for concern.”

In the short time he’s known them all, Alex has quite gotten the understanding that Isobel is more content as a widow than she was during the rather short duration of her marriage, but this is the most directly he’s heard anyone make mention of it. He’d intuited an unhappy union, and with the experience of being a child of such a partnership, has felt a certain kind of kinship with Michael’s cousin, though he’s not so presumptive to have remarked upon it. The confirmation of his suspicions, and the revelation that Rosa was faced with much the same is distressing. He finds himself leaning just a hint closer to his friend, offering support if it’s desired. Michael fiddles with the seam of his glove.

“Maxwell was already in love with Elizabeth, so when he asked me if there was any way I could see it in my heart to save her sister…and then when Isobel absolutely begged me to help as well… I did the only thing I could imagine. I told Rosa to pretend to get engaged to me so that the other gentleman would set his sights elsewhere, and then once she was safe, she could break off the engagement. Which she did, and Isobel took her in as her ladies companion. Maxwell had already promised himself to Elizabeth, and it was a happy ending for all involved.” He tilts his head ruefully. “Except the Longs. Katherine— Lady Kate— accepted the evil bastard’s suit instead. She was dead within the year. Fell tragically down the grand staircase at their manor and broke her neck.” He lets the silence build, adding to the implication. “Her husband was wed again in three months time. Lord Long is always out to humiliate me, as he has never forgiven me for my role in the entire affair. To be honest, I haven’t either. I blame myself, in part. But Long blames me in total.”

“You did nothing wrong!” Alexander exclaims.

“I knew of the danger, and did nothing to correct it. I saved someone I cared about and set someone else in harm’s way. And she died. I should have done more to prevent it. I’ll always have to live with the regret that I did not. I don’t castigate myself incessantly, but neither can I cast off that regret.”

Alexander feels compelled to comfort him, hopes that he’s not making the wrong move by settling his hand on the other man’s shoulder. 

“Regret if you must, but I still don’t believe you did wrong. Your confession does not lower you in my esteem, Guerin. It only raises you in it. You are a credit to your family, to your friends. That is why I think as highly of you as I do.” It’s more frank than he probably should be, though he thinks it’s the right thing to do, because he’s rewarded with a brilliant smile from his friend, and a hand clasped just above his elbow that burns like a brand.

“Thank you. I…should go,” Michael says, but there’s joy in his tone once again. “Dodge Long’s ire, as it were. But…” He hesitate, then barrels ahead. “Come home with us this evening?” He searches Alex’s eyes intently, eager and surprisingly vulnerable. He still clasps Alex’s arm. “You have your own townhouse, I know, and I also know that you’ll be staying with us in the country presently, but…there’s always room for one more at our breakfast table, and your companionship would be most appreciated. Lord knows there’s plenty of space. I know you prefer quiet gatherings to the crush off ballrooms anyway, and Isobel, Rosa, and I often make it a habit stay up and discuss the events of the night over a cold collation before retiring. Max and Elizabeth too, whenever they accompany us to the same entertainments. You would enjoy it, I think. We might all enjoy an excuse to leave early, in point of fact.”

It’s an earnest invitation, and one that makes Alex’s heart soar. Michael is inviting him to join them like a member of the family.

Alex hadn’t realized how honored such an invitation would make him feel. Certainly, his own family had never had such a pleasant tradition, and likely never would, the repaired relationship with just one of his elder brothers notwithstanding. Their family was a broken thing bound together by the burden of shared blood, their parents spending as much time apart as possible throughout their lives, none of his brothers particularly close since they left the nursery. Alex has long admired and even envied the closeness and camaraderie that Guerin and his family share. To be invited into that is an honor and a privilege, and it makes the attraction he bears to this man all the more powerful, and all the more hazardous. Guerin is so important to him already, after so short a time. The thought of his friend turning him aside is something he’s more keen than ever not to risk.

“That does sound more enjoyable, I have to admit.” Alexander finds Guerin’s smile, his enthusiastic charm contagious. “I should very much enjoy partaking of your hospitality this night. I daresay that Gregory and and his wife will welcome having the house to themselves for the rest of the night.” They’re practically still newlyweds after all. He knows they appreciate his invitation to stay with him in the London House, but he imagines that his fraternal companionship isn’t without its stifling effects on the passions of a young couple.

“Excellent. Meet me inside under the clock within the hour then,” Guerin nods decisively, eyes dancing. “Perhaps even if the others aren’t quite willing to depart yet, we can slip away in advance of them.” This last is spoken near Alex’s ear in such a way that it sends shivers down his spine. Shivers he works quite hard not to let Michael notice.

Alexander nods his assent, reminding himself not to imagine the things he’d like to get up to in a carriage ride alone with this man, or to think too long of the way that Guerin’s slow release of his arm is like a caress, his insolent grin damned near interpretable an invitation. That way lies madness. Despite how it appears, how easy it would be to choose to believe that Michael’s remarks could contain another layer of meaning, it terrifies him to consider acting upon that assumption and being wrong, being rebuffed and likely shunned out of social necessity.

He turns back to the rail, looks out over the gardens below. He notices the gentleman Lord Long had been conversing with is now engaged in a conversation with two ladies and another gentleman at the foot of the stairs, but the is no sign of Long. He startles when he hears a drawling voice off to his right, near the top of the stone steps. It’s Lord Long, cold and snake-like in his demeanor, hand gripping the top of his decorative cane, eyes shrewdly calculating. He stands in the light of the braziers that illuminate the terrace, threads of golden embroidery in his ostentatious waistcoat glinting along with the golden tresses of his wig- an almost cavalier style that makes even Alex, who isn’t particularly enamored of fashion plates, think the man looks vaguely ridiculous and outdated. His face beneath it is quite young however, through cruel. Had Alex attended Eton, he imagines they might have known each other. He doesn’t imagine he would have treasured the acquaintance.

“How touching,” Long drawls. “The…friendship between you two, I mean.” His eyes glitter in the light of the flames as he waves a hand containing a snuff box with a watch inlaid in the lid. It’s expensive, ostentatious as well, imported from the continent. Alex’s father had owned one of similar design. Alex had hurled the damned thing into the duck pond after his death. 

“Such a striking tableau.” Long pauses, affecting the manner of having thought of something. “Almost too intimate, one might imagine, if one had reason to think in that direction,” he tsks, stepping uncomfortably closer. In addition to faint whiffs of gin, Long reeks of sweetgum and almond oil- a perfume popular among the men of the previous generation that Alex associates most strongly with the angry silences in the halls of his childhood home, and the sound of his mother's tears. He recoils instinctively, fights not to wrinkle his nose as it becomes apparent that even the perfume is not enough to mask the rancid odor of the man’s wig, pomade left too long without being re-dressed in the warming days. Everything about this man is unpleasant. Even if he did not know the strain between this minor lord and his dear friend, Alex doubts he would find Long’s company tolerable. Long himself seems quite oblivious.

“Manes, isn’t it?” he asks. Alex manages a terse nod, but Long is carrying on almost without the affirmation, taking a leisurely pinch of snuff as he talks. “I had the pleasure of speaking with your brother recently, I believe- Lord Clayton Manes? Truly a fascinating story your family has. Youngest brother ending up the one with the largest inheritance. Most unusual.” He inhales his pinch, nose twitching as he trades the snuffbox for his handkerchief and begins folding it theatrically. “It’s almost remarkable how little gossip has managed to touch your family’s name, given the unusual circumstance. Your brother’s keen work, no doubt. He does have quite a distaste for the gossip rags.” He smiles slowly, applying the handkerchief to his nose with delicate nonchalance. “I’d be quite careful, if I were you, Manes. It seems the rule that men who keep close acquaintance with degenerates are so often tarred with the same brush, don’t you find? Your brother would be so very dismayed to have his efforts go to waste.” Alex swallows, his cravat suddenly seeming tight against his throat and as uncomfortable as the stock he’d once been required to wear as part of his military dress.

Long releases a violent attack of sternutation, following which he wipes vigorously at his nose and returns the handkerchief to his pocket.His brows arch, his smile turning more gleeful. “And Lord Guerin should be most careful of those he takes into his confidence, don’t you agree? Past mistakes can so often return to haunt a man. And you two do seem so very…amicable. Almost…amorous, really. I believe Guerin might well find reason to regret his choices regarding companionship upon the morrow. Rumors being such nasty things, and given how readily an innocent man can be quite humiliated by the wrong rumor, after all.”

Alex imagines how the moment just shared between himself and Michael might have looked, what Long must have just seen, how it can all be interpreted and feels a chill go through him despite the warmth of the air. He can’t make himself say anything, isn’t sure that he could possibly say that wouldn’t incriminate himself, or lead Long to suppose he has stronger ammunition against Guerin than mere association. Humiliate him nothing. What Long is suggesting could ruin him. Ruin them both, though Long seems to have not compunction against that. How Long knows about him and his proclivities is beyond his ken, but that the man is willing to spread rumors about Alex and use his friendship with Guerin to incriminate him as well…

Long closes the distance between them, clasping Alex’s shoulder with claw-like fingers. Alex exerts a truly heroic amount of control not to flinch away from the unpleasant touch, or to look to see if Long’s tobacco-flecked fingers have stained his best coat. The man’s touch is nothing like Michael’s— cold and disquieting where Michael’s hands radiate warmth and assurance. It makes his skin crawl. “Look to it, Manes,” Long advises before he drops his hand and strides off into the night, leaving Alex lightheaded and awash with cold terror.

He hasn’t been circumspect enough. Somehow, Long knows about his affinity for other men and is quite willing to disseminate that knowledge. That’s his error. Bad enough that his failure may damn him. He won’t allow it to damn Guerin as well. But he’ll do what he can to fix it. 

As soon as he can manage it without shaking, he turns on his heel and heads for the front of the manor to call for his carriage, not entering into the hall. He refuses to look back, refuses to think on Michael waiting for him under the clock.

He wrestles with himself half the night, trying to figure out a way out of the predicament he suddenly finds himself in. Perhaps Long’s threat isn’t genuine, perhaps he won’t actually go forward with the threat to disclose what he’s somehow gleaned about Alexander, embroil Guerin right alongside him. He’s read the Proceedings, is well aware that there must naturally be some limit to the allegations Long can prove. There are not enough witnesses to convict him on harsher offenses, and certainly none who could claim to have seen incriminating act between himself and Lord Guerin— not without perjuring themselves, at least. Alex has kept his desires well in check. Not always, of course, but ever since coming into his inheritance at least. He hasn’t visited a Molly house in at least two years, hasn’t so much as touched a prick other than his own in that time. It’s conceivable that Long might have found witnesses from the rare occasions of his younger days, induced them to speak. But the more alarming idea is that Long isn’t encumbered with much admiration for the rule of law, and having learned the truth about Alexander, will simply pay a servant to say they’ve seen something incriminating. That’s if he brings it to the courts at all. Insinuation and rumor cast long shadows.

And they’re playing right into his hand. Good lack, they had nearly left the ball in a carriage alone together tonight. He’s set to spend the balance of his summer on Guerin’s estate. If Long wants to imply something between them that doesn’t exist, he needn’t push far. Alex knows well enough how such things can be viewed. He’s imagined it himself often enough, hasn’t he? But he’s sworn not to act, not to leave room for Guerin to be hurt by his imaginings- nor indeed, for he himself to endure the pain of having anyone know of them and being cast aside in disgust.

By far the thing that makes his heart clench with fear is the idea that Guerin would be harmed in his name. The next most painful prospect is seeing Michael’s face should he ever discover the full context of Long’s threat. And so, with the clock struck half-past four and the night sky fading to rich blue outside his windows, he sits down to write the most painful letter he has ever had to write. He thinks of all the things he might like to say, all the things it’s unwise to set to paper. In the end though, it’s a simple missive- direct in the way it breaks his own heart. He has no desire for Guerin to know of the threat he is faced with.

Lord Guerin,

I regret that I will be unable to journey with you to the countryside this summer.  
Please do not call upon me to induce me to change my mind.

My sincere apologies,

-Manes

He signs it, seals it with wax and the impression of his own ring, leaves it on the table in the foyer with instructions that it is to be delivered once day breaks, and treks up the stairs to his bed, heart heavy in his chest. He feels a great weight of grief upon him, and as he sheds his clothes without the aid of his valet, he has to brush away a stray tear on more that one occasion. These friends had begun to feel like family— far more of a family than he’s ever found his own relations to be— and truncating their acquaintance is a sting he almost cannot bear. But bear it he must, for their mutual protection. He falls asleep to the sound of birds chirping entirely too cheerfully, and chastising himself for whatever foolish mistake he made to have brought himself to Long’s attention.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day dawns dreary and rainy, unseasonably cold to aid the damp in setting a raw chill into his bones. 

He finds himself unwilling to get up and face the day. He does not wish to know how the world is moving along outside. In fact, he sends the maid away before she opens the second set of drapes. One window overlooking the dismal gloom of the modest townhouse garden is quite enough. He sends his valet away too, allots himself one day for despondence while he keeps to his room and drapes himself in his dressing gown all day.

Assuming he’s feeling ill, the cook sends up trays of broth and toast and tea. He has no appetite, but forces himself to eat some of it. He ignores correspondence, attempts to read a novel, but finds his mind straying all too often. He passes long moments gazing out the window, either standing beside it and looking out, or sitting propped in bed and staring at the gray sky. He sleeps at times, but is irritated by waking, as each return to wakefulness is another opportunity for him to recall that he has been required to truncate his friendship with Lord Guerin. 

He castigates himself for mourning, but that is indeed what it feels like. It’s foolish, mourning for a friendship that was cultivated in so short a time. What’s more, he’s mourning as he would the loss of a lover, which Lord Guerin certainly never was to him. And yet, Alexander had found himself loving the man nonetheless. In secret, of course, but no matter how skilled he might be in schooling his countenance so that others don’t know his thoughts, he cannot pretend with himself that he did not love the man, nor that his decision to remove himself from Guerin’s circle is anything other than the cruelest sacrifice. 

He passes the next day in much the same fashion.

The third day, he forces himself out of bed and allows his valet to dress him, though he selects the garments himself with a wry nod toward half-mourning colors; gray breeches and his lavender waistcoat. He takes breakfast alone in his office, but can’t face the prospect of his correspondence. There are two letters from Lord Guerin, and at least one from Lady Bracken. He’s afraid that if he reads them his resolve will falter, so he sets them aside, ignores them. Ignores all of his correspondence, actually, in favor of looking over some of the books of accounts that it’s prudent for him to be aware of the details on.

It’s nearly five when Harrison, his butler, comes to the door of his office.

“Forgive me, My Lord, but a visitor has just arrived. Given the proximity to dinner, I was not certain that you were at home to visitors, even if they were visitors you might normally have had me admit.”

“I’m not at home to anyone today, Harrison,” he says, turning his attention back to the account book in front of him.

“And yet,” the sound of her sharply aristocratic voice preceding her, Lady Isobel Bracken sweeps into the room, to Harrison’s clear dismay. Alexander’s as well, for he realizes with a start that he is in shirtsleeves. “Here you are.”

Harrison moves to block her progress, casting profuse apologies over his shoulder, but Alex stops him.

“It’s fine, Harrison. It seems I am at home to Lady Bracken after all. Could you ask Cook to send up a tea tray?” Harrison looks scandalized to leave a gentleman and a lady alone together, but does as he’s asked. It’s for the best, Alex thinks tiredly. Much as he doesn’t desire this meeting, he’s hardly going to have the staff throw Isobel out on the stoop. He glances away though, entirely uncertain of what to say.

There’s a click from the doorway, and he realizes that she has actually shut the door. He’s about to protest the impropriety of the move when she turns to him, eyes flashing.

“What in damnation, Alexander?” she demands. He isn’t sure if he’s more startled by her use of his Christian name at this juncture, or by the profanity. Either way, it startles him enough that he retreats to the familiar safety of polite words and tone. It’s reflexive, really. He can hardly seek to match her ire, after all. Both because she’s a lady of quality, and because he deserves her disapprobation. 

“I’m sorry if something I have done has caused upset to you, Lady Isobel,” he says with the most correct manners he can muster. “I assure you that I meant no offense for any action I have undertaken.” He sets his fingertips on the desk to steady himself, welcoming the sturdiness of the smooth surface to help him keep his footing.

“No offense?” She narrows her eyes, cocks her head. She cuts quite a striking figure in a gown of forest green silk, her golden hair expertly coiffed. She’s also more intimidating than any commanding officer he’s encountered on the battlefield. “You meant no offense? You honestly expect me to believe that claim? Precisely which part of your behavior was meant to skirt offense?” She sets her hand on her hip, the angle of her elbow as sharp as her words. “Was it the cold-hearted letter you sent abandoning Michael and the rest of us altogether, without so much as an explanation or word of warning? Your refusal to take calls from any of us, turning us away at your stoop? The silence in response to the letters we sent and the cards we left? Tell me, do you intend to cut him at the next social gathering we are all in attendance at? Or will it in fact be the cut direct? Do let me know, Lord Manes, how far I should anticipate your inoffensive actions will extend?”

Alex shakes his head. He cannot bring himself to meet her gaze, so he directs his attention to the curtains that hang in the windows behind her shoulder. Blue, to compliment the paneling paint of this room. A good color, to be sure. When he speaks, he takes every effort to keep his voice level, not to let emotion bleed into it and allow it to quaver. It’s a blessing, perhaps, that it’s Lady Isobel who has come. He fears he would be able to retain neither his composure nor his conviction if it were Lord Guerin, here in his study with him demanding this explanation. 

“I don’t anticipate that your family shall be pressed to see me for the duration of the season, “ he says resolutely. “I mean to send my apologies to the hostesses of the events I was presently engaged to attend and leave London for a time.” He hadn’t truly given it much thought, but he likes the idea as soon as he says it. The estate his uncle kept in Yorkshire is relatively modest, but the Palladian renovations his uncle had made to the old hunting lodge made it more than comfortable, and well suited for his needs. Most importantly, it’s not London, where every direction he turns, there’s a reminder of Michael, and what he has been forced to set aside. “I shall endeavor not to further inconvenience you and your family.”

Isobel regards him coldly, silence creeping in uncomfortably around them. Finally, she shakes her head as well.

“Words are inadequate to express what I wish to convey to you, sir.” Her eyes flash, and he is altogether aware that she could cut him to the quick, should she so choose. Few people have had that power in his life since he was a child. He’s known that he’d quietly ceded that power to Michael, but it’s startling to realize that the leverage also extends to his family. That’s a significant realization in and of itself, but more distressing is the realization that, much as he doesn’t want to endure this conversation, some part of him will be dismayed if she simply turns on her heel and strides away, as it will affirm that his role in her family’s life isn’t of such outsized importance as her family’s role in his own.

It is perhaps an equal measure of fortune and misfortune that she shows no sign of turning to leave. Instead, she regards him with unyielding scrutiny and speaks again.

“I thought you had at least enough decency to stand by someone you professed was your dearest friend in his hour of need. I was aware that your reputation was of some measure of importance to you, to be sure. You are too perpetually careful and correct for it not to be.” There is a measure of approbation in her tone. “But I had believed that your friendships were of greater import to you than the petty gossip of insufferable society. It dismays me to have been incorrect in that assessment.” Her tone chills the room enough that he nearly wants to send for his greatcoat.

“But what I find most appalling,” she continues on,“is that regardless of your personal feelings on the matter, you do not seem the least bit perturbed by the notion that your abrupt departure will do far more to ruin my cousin’s reputation than it will do to preserve yours.” She sighs, shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly. “If I can beg only one measure of civility from you, let it be this; remain in London until we depart for Derbyshire in a few days time. At least then your actions will not lend credence to the rumors. I hope that your precious sensibilities will allow that small kindness, at least.”

She awaits his answer, but Alex is mired in confusion. How in heaven’s name does Isobel believe that his absence, rather than his presence would fuel the rumor mill and sink Michael’s reputation alongside his own? Guerin’s reputation. Lord Guerin’s reputation. Damnation, it’s difficult to keep the distance he must now impose, even in his own mind. He sets that aside, trying valiantly to focus on the conversation at hand.

“I must apologize, Lady Isobel, but I’m afraid we do not see eye to eye on the matter.” She scoffs theatrically, but he carries doggedly on. “I have no desire to visit ill wishes upon your family. In fact, I desire to protect everyone from unsavory rumor. That is why I feel I must depart posthaste.”

“But don’t you see!?” she exclaims in counterargument. “Your abrupt departure and abrupt termination of the friendship between our families will be taken as an indication that you believe the rumors about my brother to be true, and have publicly dropped him for it. Right now, they’re only rumors. He can and has been able to laugh them off. He’s gone to his club, made remarks about them.” She shifts her posture, and says in the fair imitation of Michael’s manner, 

“Lud, if some chap wanted to blackmail me or besmirch my name, you’d think he’d have the sense to start with things I’ve actually done. There’s rather a surfeit of critiques to be had there, even I must admit.”

She shifts back to her own manner, the change almost uncanny as she fixes him with that piercing gaze.

“But rumors that are given credence can grow quite quickly out of rumor and into matters for the court. And the courts have not been kind to people in this regard of late.” She hesitates, then continues. “Crispin and Gribble come to mind.”

Alex’s focus snaps back like a whip.

“As do Loveday and Burke,” he says slowly, and she nod solemnly in response. 

Truthfully, it’s somewhat rare to find people who recall names of the men hung for sodomy in England. A passing knowledge may be had, certainly. But the only people Alex has ever met who could readily recite their names were like-mannered men in the common room of a particular coffeehouse he had frequented for male companionship in earlier days. There, in the main gathering room, if not the more private rooms in back, their names and circumstances were discussed, and analysis made of what had led to their discovery, what verdicts might be returned in their trials. In other circles- the club, the theatre, the society rooms where men withdrew after dinner, those same individuals might be discussed- often for purposes of disapproval or titillation. But there, no one recalled the names of the men or the details of their fates mere weeks after the accounts ran in the newspapers. Except the men who had to live with the dreadful spectre of it becoming their unlucky fate as well. And now he finds, Lady Isobel. 

A half-formed theory dances in his mind as to what possible reasons she might have to call those names so readily to hand. She’s intelligent, with a razor-sharp wit. Perhaps she has an uncommonly good memory, or was so distressed upon hearing of Crispin and Gribble at a particularly opportune moment that their names alone remain committed to her memory. Perhaps she is one of the ladies who find entertainment by sitting in the courtroom galleries, scandalizing the newspaper men and listening to the accounts of appalling crimes. Behaving entirely within the bounds of propriety and still scandalizing men is very much in keeping with what he’s learned of her nature.

But perhaps…perhaps she commits those names to memory for the selfsame reasons Alex does— because she feels a direct interest in the outcomes of their cases, in what becomes of these mens lives. If that is the case, it’s quite possible she’ll recognize more people thusly accused. He seeks to test the theory.

“The crowds have not been kind either,” he observes. “Take, for example, the men burned in effigy in Southampton recently.”

“Mr. Edwards and his soldier, yes?” She responds readily, the name already at the tip of her incisive tongue. “Who they dragged through the flames of his own burnt effigy and then plunged him into the horse pond. And another man the next week, wasn’t it?” Isobel doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash as she details the appalling events, but the pained outrage is evident in her tone nonetheless. “Or are you instead referring to Messers. Greenway and Lelarsier, who were so badly beaten by the crowds upon their acquittal that they nearly died anyway? 

“The crowds have also brutally treated men sentenced to the stand in the pillory,” Alex notes, adding another plank to the structure of this conversation. “The murder committed by the crowds here with respect to Reade and Smith lead Mr.Edmund Burke to speak out against the practice in Parliament. Smith died that in the pillory, and Reade never recovered from his injuries after bring pelted with…all manner of horrifying things. The editorials…did not agree with Mr. Burke.” That’s an understatement. Alex had been a young man then, newly an officer, and reading those letters published in the papers had made him twist with a shame he had had to desperately hide from everyone else around him.

“Not just men,” Isobel reminds him quietly. “They blinded Ann Marrow in the pillory at Charing Cross after she was convicted of marrying a woman.”

“I had forgotten,” Alex admits with chagrin. 

“Since we’re finally speaking frankly,” Isobel regards him with shrewd candor, “We must also acknowledge that it’s not only Cartwrights, plaisterers, common soldiers, farmers, and apothecaries who the law despises in this regard. I’m sure you know that despite the advantages of our class, there have been within our lifetimes clergymen, military officers, gentlemen, and members of the nobility accused and convicted as well.”

She inclines her head. “Mr. Foote for instance, who was forced to stand trial, but also Captain Jones who was given a death sentence, but pardoned at the last reluctant moment by the King and self-transported to Florence.” Her head cocks consideringly. “Which is where the Earl of Tylney also fled of course, whereas Viscount Courtenay fled to America. And Beckford, his lover, has had to retire to the Continent, despite being the son of the Lord Mayor London, married to a Earl’s daughter, and arguably the richest person outside the peerage in all of England. Or Mr. Drybutters, who endured all manner of harms ranging from a chocolate pot being upended over his head in a coffeehouse to being treated so roughly by the mob that broke out all the windows in his home in Pall Mall that it’s unclear whether he died of his injuries, or faked his death and made for exile in France.”

“I recall each of their circumstances,” he allows gravely.

She nods sagely. “Many of their tragedies began with claims hardly more substantiated than the leaflet circling now. And yet other rumors have faded away with more actual evidence at hand. The difference of course being whether or not rumor was lent credence. Surely you can see that your sudden departure will be seen as that credibility, the match that ignites the gunpowder, as it were.”

Alex rather loses the thread of her words, though not the import of them.

“Forgive me, Lady Isobel. But…you mentioned a leaflet?”

Her eyes narrow.

“Indeed…” she draws the word out, her displeasure thinly veiled at best. “I believed that particular publication to be what we were discussing. The cause for your abrupt silence and planned departure, as it were.”

Alex shakes his head distractedly. He hasn’t seen a publication, but it chills him to consider that this is what Long may have set in motion.

“Have you a copy of the leaflet?” he inquires, dread building in perhaps his very bones.

She looks quite puzzled, but reaches for her reticule.

He takes the paper she extracts, willing his fingers not to tremble visibly.

It’s in verse, as things like this often are, the rhyme serving to make more memorable, to fix it in the minds of anyone who encounters it and allow it to spread beyond the sheets of paper it’s printed on. It’ s rude of course, and slanderous.Vague enough not to run afoul of libel laws, but there’s an image sketched above it that helps clarify its target. The sketch is of a lion clad as a Macaroni, clothes mis-buttoned and sneaking out the door of a bedchamber with another man’s boots discarded on the floor to imply a scandalous circumstance. His mane is a riotous profusion of curls, and though the name of the Lord it refers to is replaced with a long dash, it’s abundantly clear that the man’s name is understood to rhyme with the word “therein” which ends the line above.

Guerin.

His mouth goes dry, mind racing to call back the conversation with Long a few nights ago. In retrospect, he has the cold realization that the abhorrent man’s smirking innuendo may not have been directed at Alex himself. Clearly, his target was Michael all along, and the strange conversation that night might almost have been…a warning? Quite apart from the threats Alex perceived, he now considers that Long’s aim may have been a plot to plant the seeds of doubt in the minds of Michael’s closest allies and compatriots, to cause them to turn away from him and allow innuendo to become rumor— rumor with teeth to it that would support this caricature. And Alex had unwittingly played directly into Long’s hands.

And all of these past days, while Alex himself has been hiding from the world and wallowing in the sorrow of losing Michael’s friendship. Michael has been contending with the vicious nature of the ton, the scandal sheets, and the public.

He has to do something. He has to set it right. He raises his gaze from the paper, meeting Lady Isobel’s inscrutable stare.

“Will he see me?”

The barest flicker of surprise disrupts her expression, but she schools her features back again almost immediately.

“I imagine so,” she allows.

“I’ll go at once,” he decided aloud.

“I brought the carriage,” Isobel offers. “You may accompany me, if you desire.”

It’s a short walk, but it’s getting dark, and starting to rain again, if the droplets on the window glass are any indication. He takes her up on the offer. 

Sitting across from her in the well-appointed carriage, feeling a strange mix of comfort and unease, he tries to imagine what he’s going to say to Michael. He wants to make this right, but he’s not at all certain how he’s going to go about doing so. 

It’s an even shorter ride than it is a walk, and they arrive before he’s quite landed on a satisfactory answer.

At the Guerin townhouse, Isobel sweeps into the marble-floored foyer, announcing imperiously that Lord Manes is here for Lord Guerin. The butler, Williams, nods and heads smartly for the door to the library. The door is left the slightest bit ajar, and Alex can hear the sound of the conversation filter through- Williams’s low voice saying,

“Lord Manes to see you, sir. If you are at home to him.”

And Michael’s faint response, just a few brief words that make Alex’s heart clench with hope and regret.

“I am always at home to Lord Manes.”


	4. Chapter 4

The butler returns, taking Isobel’s wrap and ushering Alex into the library just off the entry hall. The warm clove walls are familiar- he and Michael have shared many a drink and conversation here in just a few short months. Yet now, he is struck with nerves at the sight of his friend in this room- tawny curls glinting in the candlelight, his figure done particular justice by the cut of his deep brown coat and the tailoring of his breeches. Michael is standing, a book in hand that Alex rather suspects he’d picked up simply to have something to occupy his hands with, given the way he’s holding it upside down.

Alex sympathizes- he has no earthly idea how to look at ease just now. Michael regards him with an expression he can’t decipher, and for all the conversational variants he had considered and rejected on the way over here, he still has not managed to determine how to begin this conversation. He intends to be truthful, he just…doesn’t know which variants of the truth to tell, how thoroughly he should express them.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to say,” He confesses, just to keep the silence from building.It’s not elegantly stated, but it has the benefit of being true in and of itself.

“It’s no matter,” Michael tells him magnanimously. “I don’t fault you, for any part of it. Scandal is not for everyone, and it’s perfectly natural to not want a rumor of such magnitude to be applied to one’s reputation, even by proxy of friendship. Having had the experience with this particular rumor-mill now, I cannot say that I recommend it, nor wish it on my worst enemy, let alone my dearest friend. And you know I am no stranger to scandal.” He lets his eyes meet Alex’s for a brief moment in the pause as he begins his next sentiment. “I…worried that the rumors might have driven you away, but I now hope that your presence here tonight indicates that I was wrong on that count?”

“That’s just the thing. They did drive me away,” Alex says levelly. Michael’s fingers tighten around the book, and Alex worries he’s getting this entirely wrong. He can feel the hasty beat of his heart under his tongue, intensely aware of how it hammers, making it difficult to articulate what he hopes to clarify and convey. “But not in the way you might think.” He draws a steadying breath. 

“You see, I know well the fear that a whisper of impropriety of the sort you face will wreak irrevocable havoc on one’s friendships. Whether the subject of the rumor is true or not. It’s indeed why I have refused to be seen in your company these past days, why I told you I could not travel with you to the countryside. I was afraid of what rumors it might spark.” Alex forces himself to continue. It’s rash, but he thinks he needs to do it. He can’t explain the depths of his sympathy or regret if he does not.

“Lord Long spoke to me the night of the ball.” He notes the way that Michael’s gaze sharpens when he says that, the added wariness that creeps into his features.

“He insinuated quite heavy-handedly- invoking an unpleasant connection to my family even- that he had something planned which would make me come to regret my close friendship with you.” He takes a steadying breath. “Some information that would wound us both, make society turn on you viciously and posthaste, cause people believe a thing had occurred between us that never had.” He thinks he sees a hint of understanding dawn, but if he meets Michael’s gaze to fully, he will lose the courage for all he means to say, so he can’t be sure. “I should have warned you, but instead I panicked.” HE makes his apology, lets it rest between them a moment.

“That’s understandable, I suppose.” Michael smiles grimly. “I can attest that Long has an uncanny knack for leading people to fear unpleasant things might come to pass.”

“I believe I thought it inevitable, more like,” Alex corrects. “The weight of the implication, at least. You see, I…thought the reason he told me this was that he had discovered certain…pieces of information about me- chiefly surrounding some of my passing friendships with men of various stations at a coffehouse I used to frequent in St. James Park- and sought to use me as a weapon against you.” He says it lightly, but the sentence itself is damning. No gentleman could be unaware of the insinuation he has just made. But to be certain Guerin understands the ways this implication ties back to him… “Things that would make his allegations against you more believable, that so long as he could apparently prove them of me, the tarnish would necessarily rub off on you- even though I had been careful never to allow the slightest impropriety in our friendship. Information that would seem like proof, or something equally damning.” 

He clasps his hands behind his back to conceal their shaking. Michael has gone almost preternaturally still. But he hasn’t asked Alex not to continue speaking, so Alex soldiers on.

“I left the ball as soon as he made his insinuations and wrote you that letter, hoping to insulate you from the damage. I prayed a sudden break would be enough to protect you, to stay his hand, as it were. But as it turned out…” He trails off, both of them too well aware of what Michael must have faced these past days. “I didn’t think it possible to explain, really. I…didn’t want you to know what I believed Long was holding over my head. I closed myself off, didn’t take callers or engage in correspondence. I suppose I didn’t want to know what was being said about me. As such, it wasn’t until half an hour ago that I read the handbill he published and realized that you were his direct target all along, that he never had any idea of what weapon he could make of me and of our friendship. And that removing myself from the equation turned out to be no protection to you at all.”

Alex wants to look away, to look anywhere but Michael’s face. It’s tempting to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves or distract himself in some other way. He doesn’t give into that temptation though, forcing himself instead to remain resolute and face the impacts of his actions, and now of this reckless commitment to honesty, because there’s another piece he feels compelled to state.

“And what I came to understand alongside that realization,” he confesses, “was that abandoning you in a time in which you needed the staunch support of your friends was a betrayal of perhaps more egregious measure, though I did not intend for it to be. For this reason, amongst the multitude of others, I am sensible that you you may no longer desire my support, or even my friendship.”

“Of course I desire your friendship!” Michael bursts out the exclamation. The indignation in his tone releases some of the horrendous tension that Alex has felt gnawing at him.

Michael’s gaze is intent upon Alex as he speaks.

“What I believe you’re saying, with all your veiled talk of proof and action, your understanding and ‘passing friendships’ and whatnot- is that you’ve had clandestine affairs with other men, yes? Lain with them as with women. And that, having disclosed that fact to me, you believe I might not want to continue our friendship.”

Alex nods faintly, trying very much not to appear as though his heart is in his throat. He’s never stated it so plainly, never heard it stated so plainly in regards to himself. Knowing what he has done, what he desires, and naming it suddenly feel like two different things entirely.

He clears his throat.

“I…did not want to presume you would be receptive to continuing a friendship with someone whose nature is so often seen as abhorrent and even criminal in society. I still have no intention to presume. Only to explain why I acted in the manner I did.”

Michael sets his book carefully on the desk, deliberately crosses the room to put a steady hand on Alex’s shoulder, the familiar grasp a salve against at least his worst fears.

“If I were not, I’d be a fool.” The quirk of Michael’s smile suffuses Alex with warmth and relief. “And a damned hypocrite.”

Alex registers a second of confusion, certain that he must have taken the wrong meaning. He meets Michael’s gaze, unable to let himself trust what he sees there, even as Michal shakes his head and says, “I hope you’ll forgive me for this.”

And then, to Alex’s astonishment, Michael seizes Alex’s lips in a kiss. It’s a sudden shock to experience something he’s wanted so much and convinced himself could never come to pass. He feels all at once as though he is frozen like a block of ice cut from the river in winter and lit up like a fuse, a candle set to flame as the kiss steals the very air from his lungs. For all the times he’s imagined something like this and chastised himself the impossibility of it— Michael’s mouth on his, his hand burning like coals on Alex’s shoulder, he hasn’t dared imagine it could be anything more than fantasy, and when his mind catches up with events and he moves to return the kiss, he feels the relief ripple through Michael’s body.

It’s a brief kiss, and over far too fast. But it shakes him to his core in the best, most astonishing ways.

But then, even when Michael ends the kiss, neither of them move apart. Michael’s curls brush Alex’s brow, and he lets his forehead rest against Alex’s, breathing in the same air, held by some sort of inexplicable magnetism.

“So many times I’ve wanted to do that,” Michael murmurs reverently, his eyes blinking open, searching Alex’s. “So many times I thought you might be receptive to such an action, but could never be sure. And so I restrained myself.”

“I had the same desire,” Alex confesses. “And the same fear.” He presses his lips together, the action of drawing breath into his startled lungs suddenly an oddly painful proposition. Strangely, this moment after that magical kiss is almost a worse anguish than keeping his desire hidden, because he now has a sense of something he stands to lose.

In the past, he’s understood what he was doing in his rare encounters with other men, what boundaries existed even as they transgressed others. At the coffeehouse he had patronized on rare occasion, it had been straightforward- two men with a sense of what each wanted, and a small window of time in which to achieve release.

But this-a friend, someone he cares deeply for, kissing him with his clothes fastened, kissing him with such tenderness and restrained passion…this is something he never dreamed he could have. The prospect of having to walk out of this room again, to go back to his typical existence is almost too much to bear. 

Experience tells him that he should be hurriedly unbuttoning Michael’s breeches, making use of these rare moments of time and the closed door to achieve mutual gratification before the opportunity expires. But he senses that is not what this moment is for. He has no earthly idea what to expect from the impossible thing unfolding between them, but he’s quite certain he doesn’t want to hasten a second of it. He wants to savor it, take note of the solid pressure that is Michael’s brow pressed against his own, the sensation of Michael’s hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, coaxing their lips to meet again. He loses himself in the kiss, blinks dazedly when they resurface. The very ground beneath his feet seems to have shifted.

He chases Michael’s lips, draws him back in. It’s a slow kiss, but not a soft one this time. This third kiss, it speaks to hunger, to desire. This time, Michael steps that tiniest bit closer, aligning their bodies exquisitely and a thrill courses through Alex’s entire body with the sensation- and the proof firm against his thigh that Michael’s desire equals his own. He shifts his hips forward and is rewarded with a strangled moan from Michael.

“Not here.” Michael mutters against his lips. His fingers tangle in Alex’s short hair, even as he draws away, biting his kiss-reddened lower lip. “Most of the staff here, they’re hired along with the rented house. We hardly know them, and with what’s going on, I can’t be sure they won’t gossip, or seek to supplement their income.”

“Where, then?” Alex asks. His own home, with his brother and sister-in-law in residence is hardly a feasible alternative, and neither of them can risk being seen entering an establishment of questionable repute at the moment.

“Come away with us to the country,” Michael urges. “You were going to. You’re still welcome to. The staff there…they’re all discreet, as a matter of pride and of necessity. We could spend the night in the same bed and no one would so much as bat an eyelash. Could wake up together in it the next morning as well.”

The idea of waking up beside a lover is something Alex has never seriously entertained, the restrictions of society being what they are. 

“That…seems improbable,” he says carefully. “No one’s loyalty is that ironclad.”

“Fairhaven’s is,” Michal insists. He withdraws his hand reluctantly, turning to the table along the wall where he keeps the decanter of brandy. He talks as he pours. “I don’t say that out of hopeful fondness or misplaced trust. I…rarely speak of this, but nearly everyone who works there came to do so because some scandal in their past rendered them unemployable elsewhere.”

He sets the second glass out to pour as well, carries them toward the chairs they most often occupy when they sit together in this room.

“It started when I was away at school- a chambermaid who asked Isobel if we would consider employing her cousin, a groom who had lost his position after being caught in a compromising position with one of his former employer’s offspring and sent packing without references. The family kept most of the rumors quiet, and most people in the area thought it was because they didn’t want whichever daughter ruined by the scandal of kissing a stable boy. And so the fact that it was the young scion of the family, home from holiday during his final year at Eaton is a very well-kept secret which preserved his life, but not his livelihood. Isobel offered him a position. He’s stayed with the estate ever since, took over as stable-master last spring when the previous stable-master retired.”

Alex takes his brandy and his usual chair, fascinated with this knowledge.

“That was just the start of it, too. It’s been all kinds in the years since. There’s a maid who arrived in the family type of way by fault of her former employer’s…insistence. My valet married her posthaste and they raise the child together, though she and another maid keep a remarkably close companionship, and my valet often arrives from the stables in the early morning instead of his own room.” Michael settles into his seat and commences a list.

“ The coachman and the first footman are remarkably close as well, the second footman and the gardener often spend very late evenings together- sometimes with the groom who lives in the stables in a manner I assume extends beyond friendship.” He smirks, but continues. “My Steward lodges with the Gamekeeper, and Cook switched to a smaller room a number of years ago, because it’s the room next to Mrs. Shaw’s- who is of course the housekeeper. Our groundskeeper courts a lovely girl from the village, but he’s Mrs. Shaw’s younger brother and so deeply committed to the way that Fairhaven runs as well.”

He frowns in contemplation a moment before commencing again, and Alex is frankly staggered to consider that there’s more to list— but apparently, there it. “The scullery maid wears breeches most days and often flirts with the laundress. Rosa and Elizabeth’s Lady’s Maid flirts with the laundress and the Second Footman in equal measure. Sanders, who has been the Butler since my father’s day and we thought might be the most disgruntled about the all of it— from the shape of things, to the not-insignificant issue that both Isobel and I had made decisions about staffing directly, instead of leaving it entirely to his purview— has relaxed the rules my father compelled him to enforce not allowing relations between staff. I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t put up a fuss until nearly a year after James- the groom- came to Fairhaven, and I went looking for Sanders to instruct him about some wine we wanted brought in. I found him in the cellar with Hugh, who used to be my father’s Valet and stayed on as the porter. They were just…in the cellar, sampling the latest batch of beer Sanders had overseen the brewing of for quality, but they way they were together… the fondness and tenderness with which they looked at each other, the closeness between them, at their age…I suddenly understood why they just quietly accepted the new direction, unconventional though my instructions were. I won’t lie- I was shaken by how much I something like that for myself some day— a place safe enough that no one had to live their lives in fear. So I talked to my cousins, and we set about about building toward that vision.” Michael looks at him earnestly, entreating Alex to understand.

“Each person who has come into employment at Fairhaven since then some reason to be uncertain of their welcome in service at all. And we’re somewhat unusual in that no one has left our employ there in over five years. Honestly, one of the only things my good-for-nothing ancestors did right was name the place. It’s a haven, for quite a lot of people as it turns out. And because we take great pains to protect the staff and keep their secrets, they keep ours as well.”

Michael swirls his brandy glass slowly.

“We’d be safe, there. Safer than any place in England, and most on the Continent. People who are a bit different? They belong at Fairhaven. You and I…we’d fit right in.” The nervous hope in his expression makes Alex’s heart ache. “Say you’ll think about it?”

“I don’t need to think about it,” Alex tells him. He’s not certain he shares Michael’s confidence in Fairhaven’s exceptional nature, but the hope of it being true aches in him. He wants to believe it, to get away from London, the ton, the whispers of scandal and petty intrigue. He wants to retreat to the country with Michael and his family, wants to believe that an idyllic estate where they can steal some tender moments together is in fact a real place. He nearly wants to dance at the idea that there is a mutual desire between them that they can indulge, even for a summer. “I should return home at once and have my valet resume packing my trunks.”

He stands, sets his glass on the table. He doesn’t miss Michael’s cautious, hopeful smile- and feels an answering smile of the same kind tug at his own lips. Michael catches the sleeve of his coat as he turns to leave.

“Truly? You mean it?”

“I mean it,” Alex vows. “I’ll come to the countryside as your guest, see this Fairhaven that you and the others always speak of so fondly.”

“In three days time,” Michael reminds him.

“Three days time,” Alex affirms. And then, he does something he has never done before. He leans down to brush his lips against another man’s for the purpose of pure affection. It’s a promise, and a sign of faith. He feels terrified, a bit unmoored… but also buoyed by the affection and esteem Michael allows to show in his eyes now. 

They’ve stood on either side of a door they believed was locked and barred for the entire time they’ve known each other, and now that door seems as though it’s been blasted off its hinges with black powder. And while it’s terrifying to consider stepping across this threshold, the risk feels like it just might be worth it, if he and Michael are taking those steps together.

Another giddy brush of their lips, and then Alex pulls away.

“I have to leave, else all I want to do will be to stay,” he chastises Michael.

“Go,” Michael instructs, his thumb tracing Alex’s jaw ever so briefly, “Before I do something imprudent, like ask you to stay.”

He makes it to the door before looking back at this man who would be his lover.

“Three days,” Michael reminds him, one more utterance of the promise before Alex steps out of the room.

He hardly even feels the rain spitting down at him during his walk home.

  
They don’t go those three days without seeing each other. Michael invites him riding in the park the next morning, and he accepts eagerly. Every time he tightens his grip within his gloves, shifts the reins, he think about how much he desires to touch Michael. Sitting astride his horse, he has to steer his thoughts away from highly improper visions of straddling Michael instead. They chat amiably for the benefit of those around them, return polite conversation to anyone who greets them— after all, part of the purpose of the ride is to show that Michael is unruffled by the rumors. Not everyone greets them warmly— some pass them by, some greet Alex but cut Michael. For many reasons, it’s far from the most comfortable ride he’s ever taken. But even having seen Michael puts a spring in his step the rest of the day as he prepares to travel.

  
The day before they are to leave dawns bright and clear, and for the purpose of showing themselves entirely unconcerned, they make the decision to stroll in the park instead of riding, with Isobel and Rosa to accompany them- the women having arranged it, Elizabeth and Maxwell accompany them, their status as a married couple allowing them to serve as appropriate chaperons so as not to invite new scandal as they stave off the existing one.

Michael escorts Rosa, which leaves Alex to escort Isobel. He finds himself more at ease than he often does around unmarried women. Perhaps it’s their conversation from the other day, but it’s also the sense he’s gotten that Michael’s entire family have begun to become his friends in their own right, and that neither Isobel or Rosa seek to cast him as a suitor that makes him feel entirely comfortable. Perhaps its also the commentary that Isobel keeps up under her breath at the expense of some of the pettier members of the peerage, and the way she and Rosa keep a tally of the intrigued or calculating looks they get to track the progress of this strategic little endeavor that puts him at ease, as it’s quite clear they see this as a platonic outing to find humor in. He wonders how much Isobel knows.

Isobel has spared no effort in making sure that she diverts some of the attention directed at their party, wearing a smart blue Spencer jacket with military braid, and a hat somewhat inspired by the Admiralty, though Alex has never seen a commanding officer with quite so many literal feathers in his cap. She is, as usual, at the height of fashion, and he’s glad he’s worn his blue breeches and one of his newer coats- the dove grey- so that he makes a reasonable showing strolling beside her. It is perhaps good that his friendship with Michael has made him appreciate the colors available in his wardrobe, and not just the quality of cut and fabric, which was all he had previously indulged in. Indeed, Elizabeth, with her interest in subjects like Ornithology and the Natural World, teasingly tell him that he reminds her of an American Yellowbird, or ‘Goldfinch’ whose plumage grows more vibrant as spring approaches. Michael teases her that she’s insufferable ever since Max got her that copy of Catesby’s Natural History of Carolina, Florida, and the Bahama Islands (despite the fact that Alex knows full well that Michael had assisted with the procurement of the two-volume set, since Alex had accompanied them on that errand toward the beginning of their acquaintance). Elizabeth good-naturedly retorts that Michael is assuredly a Great Booby, both for the enjoyment he has of color in his attire, and for his wisdom in insulting a lady, which sets Michael laughing and reminding Max that he is among the luckiest of men, to have a wife who is so much smarter than all of the men among them combined.

Michael does always cuts a fine figure, even if Alex must admit he has a biased eye, but the man’s ensemble of green is one that he always thinks looks especially fine. It’s a challenge not to let his eyes linger longer than is reasonable. Beside Michael, Rosa is of course the picture of elegance in a white muslin walking dress accented with a bold red sash the same color as the piping on Isobel’s jacket, and a wrap to match. Behind them, Elizabeth and Max present a charmingly sedate picture, her in a dress of sprigged muslin and him in a responsible suit of brown. Alex is cognizant that every detail was arranged by the women to present the desire image to society— a party of friends, modish yet appearing well within the bounds of propriety, unconcerned by rumor or innuendo. Because he’s aware of the need for the performance, he plays along. To his surprise, he finds that even with the discomfort inherent in the glances they get and the care he has to take not to show the depth of his interest in Michael, he begins to truly enjoy himself on the walk.

Most of their commentary is about the upcoming trip, the delights that Fairhaven has to offer, and the traditions that they enjoy there. Alex is quite content to be regaled with stories not just about the mock naval battles on the pond, but also of pageants they’ve written and performed since the cousins were all children rattling around the estate for the summer, lawn bowling, riding, and Pall-Mall. He’s charmed, hearing of their lives as children, and both pleased and a bit startled that they’re so eager to welcome him in to their traditions. He has live in fine houses and been a guest at great estates before in his time, but he’s never been so thoroughly assured of his welcome as he feels now.

He’s coming to know all of them better— he’s even begun to perceive the differences in Isobel’s smiles- the ones she gives to company and the people they pass on the path, and the ones she reserves for friends- the ones that reach her eyes. In the last day or two, more of the latter have been directed his way. 

He’s learned that Rosa is not only a wit, she has a wicked sense of humor. Elizabeth chats with him as though they’ve been bosom friends their entire lives, and Max even seems increasingly cheerful in his direction, where he had been just typically pleasant before. He’s not entirely sure what’s gone on and what they know…but something, he thinks, has shifted since the night he made his apology and confessed his feelings for Michael. He had been graciously welcomed before, but there’s something else to it now- a contentment he doesn’t think is entirely attributable to the fluttering feeling he get in his chest when he looks at Michael. Or when Michael looks back at him.


	5. Chapter 5

The building sense of camaraderie continues as they depart for Fairhaven the next day. Amid the hubbub of trunks and baggage being loaded and seats assigned in the coaches outside Guerin’s townhouse, he is greeted warmly by every member of their party. It’s three days of travel to Fairhaven, with only brief stops during the days to rest the horses and stretch their legs. With the coach and the carriage, they members of their party swap around throughout the trip to keep conversation fresh- the first day, he and Michael share the larger carriage with Rosa and Isobel— who he now calls by their given names in his mind, rather than the proper address of Miss Ortecho and Lady Bracken. Evans has ceased even to be Maxwell and has become Max, and Elizabeth has told him he’s free to call her by one of the nicknames the rest of the group use for her, like Liz, Lizzie, or Lisbeth. 

Propriety, he has been advised delightedly by Rosa, has no business insinuating itself into friendships at Fairhaven. If you’ve been invited, you’re trusted by the family, and there’s no sense in standing on ceremony at that point. Since she’s something of an expert in how it feels to be embraced by the small clan, he figures it to be sound enough advice and endeavors to enojoy the deviation from the societal rules and strictures he’s spent so much of his life learning to adhere to.

The first day with Isobel and Rosa, they talk for much of the journey, regaling him with stories of wild childhood hijinks and adventures, all three correcting each other’s accounts as they go. They ask him to share his stories too- he doesn’t have very many expressly happy stories from his younger days, so he offers what he can. Rosa suggests he must have some fascinating stories from his military career to tell, so he offers those, and they delight in his re-tellings. He smiles so much on parts of the drive that his face twinges with aches as a result. But his heart is light, the air let in through the windows is fresh, the countryside beautiful, and the company superb. For all the constant jostling and the weariness that long travel on bumpy roads brings, he’s hard-pressed to recall many better days.

The proximity he and Michael have might help a great deal with that assessment. Rosa and Isobel have already taken the forward-facing bench when he enters the coach, leaving him to sit beside Michael for the duration of the day’s journey. It’s a welcome hardship, as every bounce of the road surface beneath the carriage wheels means their arms, knees, or even thighs might brush- moments of contact they don’t have to steal…even if they steal Alex’s breath away and prove distracting in the extreme. On frequent occasion, his glances toward Michael linger, hovering just at the edge of what can be attributed to polite and friendly interest. More of then not, he finds Michael looking back.

He is careful to follow the thread of every story and tale…but woven through the entire day’s journey is his awareness of Michael’s proximity…the warmth of his arm, the press of his knee, the wry curve of his lip as he reminisces about chasing the girls with frogs caught at the large pond at Fairhaven, until they banded together and chased him back with a frog apiece while Max utterly refused to help.

Alex treasures those stories for the insights they give into Michael and his friends, but also is driven to distraction by the memory of Michael’s lips under his own, the solid press of their bodies together, and the way his body remembers these things with every incidental touch. By the way Michael dares to catch his eyes sometimes, he’s sharing similar thoughts.

Around midday, it gets rather warm in the carriage, and everyone begins to get drowse, conversation lapsing as they each nod off in turn. In the military, Alex had been accustomed to sleeping when it was possible, even if the circumstances weren’t precisely comfortable. He finds the skills hasn’t deserted him, as he wakes feeling surprisingly refreshed after a brief nap to find Michael’s hip wedged tight against his, his head resting on the cloth-covered wall opposite as he dozes. Across from him, Rosa is curled into Isobel’s shoulder, her face tucked against the other woman’s decolletage and clearly fast asleep.  
  
The look on Isobel’s face as she looks at the other woman sleeping is tender, fond, almost vulnerable. It sharpens as he moves his head, like a lioness sensing a threat to her pride. She regards him coolly, but seeing her tenderness with the other woman, and considering the true nature of the rapport between himself and her cousin, Alex is brought back to remembering how readily she had recalled the names of men and women jailed or killed for their actions with other members of their sex. It occurs to him now that her awareness may be far less academic than he had assumed. There is perhaps even more of a solidarity and kinship between them than he had imagined.

He offers her a smile, and rests his own head against the wall of the coach again, letting his eyes drift close as he tries to convince himself that the the jarring motion of the carriage is more of a soothing, rocking sort of sensation.

They stop periodically for fresh horses, but those stops are brief and hardly delay their journey. The truest rest is taken as evening approaches, and they pull into the the yard of the inn where they are expected to stay the night. A private dining room has been set aside for their use, and though the fare is simple, it is welcome after a long day of travel. While they eat, their rooms are made ready, and they retire there with plans to rise early the next morning and undertake the journey once more.

It’s a fine room- finer than many Alex has slept in until recently, given years of sparse officer’s quarters and camp-beds once his uncle had purchased his commission. It’s small, but the bed is sturdy and looks comfortable enough. He shrugs his coat off, washes his face and hands in the basin, and has just begun to contemplate undressing himself rather than wait upon Guerin’s valet, who he has been kind enough to offer to share with Alex for the duration of his visit, when there is a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he calls, anticipating Finley. It’s not the valet who unlatches the door, but rather, Michael.

“Manes!” he exclaims cheerfully, presumably for the benefit of anyone who might be in the hall. “I brought by that volume on agricultural methods we were discussing earlier.” The glint in his eyes suggests that he’s not thinking about agriculture in the slightest.

“Won’t you come in?” Alex offers politely, going along with the fiction.

The moment the door is latched firmly, Michael’s lips are on his, his hands cupping Alex’s face- a hungry, breathless kiss, a moment stolen after so many profoundly wished for.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” Michael confesses, setting Alex’s back against the wall. “Do you know what torture it is to be so close, to have professed what we have, and not be able to touch you as I will?”

“I have some idea,” Alex says wryly, reaching for Michael’s lapel to draw him in again, however imprudent it is to continue this.

“I half hoped that the inn would be over crowded, and that there would therefore be a justification for us to have to share a chamber,” Michael confesses. “But alas, it’s still a slow week for travel. And so I hope you will forgive my forwardness.

“I believe you can perceive the proof of my appreciation for your actions,” Alex assures him, shifting so there is no mistaking how his body has responded favorably to the events. “Though I can’t for the life of me imagine why you chose Agricultural methods to weave your fiction for entrance.”

Michael’s grin is positively wicked.

“Oh, I can assure anyone, under oath if need be, that I am absolutely thinking about plowing at this moment. My mind is entirely occupied with the subject, in fact.” He presses forward to illustrate his point.

Alex isn’t certain whether he’s scandalized or delighted, and settles on being both, then eschewing that contemplation in favor of the experience of tangling his fingers in Michael’s hair, shivering in response to the slide of Michael’s tongue against his own.

“I want this,” Michael tells him, his hand curling string around Alex’s waist, the words a low rumble that Alex feels reverberate through him, the ghosting breath against his ear setting even his fingertips a-tingle. “I want you. In a bed, with time enough that we don’t have to rush and any haste can be attributed to our eagerness, rather than necessity.” He drops his head, drags his lips sensuously along Alex’s jaw, the hint of his stubble sparking pleasure as sure as if it were flint set to steel. “And we shall have it,” he promises. “Soon.”

“Not nearly soon enough,” Alex glances toward the bed..and the way that Michael’s gaze intensifies even farther has him cursing every single force, including prudence and caution, that keep them from tumbling into that bed, or even rutting to completion here against the wall. Another brush of Michael’s lips, his hand in Alex’s hair, and Alex has to bite back a moan.

“Hold to that thought,” Michael instructs him, just as a gentle tap comes at the door. This time it’s almost certainly Finley, there to help him undress for the night.

Michael eases away, apologies in his eyes. He tugs his clothing back into a semblance of order as Alexander reluctantly does the same, lets Alex reach up to straighten his waistcoat once more, comb his hair back. He returns to favor, and as he tucks Alex’s hair back behind his ear with a tenderness that makes his heart ache, Michael makes a promise.

“Soon. Almost soon enough to make up for the time we have missed of each other.”

Acting on instinct, Alex catches him before he turns away, steps to him for a final kiss. Their lips meet with a brush, and the delicacy with which one handles a fragile goblet or the latest bone china tea sets that are strong and yet so thin you can see the shadow of one’s fingers when you hold it up to the light. It’s an apt metaphor, he thinks. He can see the shadow of a life he has been afraid to desire, held up against the bright light of summer in the country with this man whom he adores. And apt again, because every time Guerin’s lips touch his with that tenderness, his heart is in danger of shattering.

The desire he feels is profound, but truly, the gentleness and unspoken promises in these kisses are what undo him.

He wants this, for however long it might be possible.

And after Michael’s fingers have trailed reluctantly from his, after he departs and Finley has been admitted to help him undress and departs himself, taking Alexander’s coat to be brushed and sponged, he lands upon a third reason the metaphor is apt.

What they might have of each other is like one of Spode’s new bone china tea sets, laid out for a garden tea in the bright summer sun. He has never before imagined how the china might feel, tucked back on the shelf after the special occasion is done, the guests departed and the house closed up again. There’s no shying from that eventuality- “Summer’s lease hath all too short a date” to quote the Bard and all. But he resolves to make the most of each moment they do have. There’s an instinct to protect his heart, knowing that it will be so much harder to return to his normal life if he allows himself to know Michael in the ways they both desire.

But laying that room in a traveller’s inn, the ghost of Michael’s kiss still on his lips as he traces them with his own fingers in the dark, he resolves to let his heart be open as long as he can, for the same reason that one uses the fine china with company instead of letting it languish unused on a shelf for fear that it might shatter. If it’s going to shatter, it makes more sense to have gotten good use out of it, have memories to contemplate, instead of regrets of holding back.


	6. Chapter 6

They arrive at Fairhaven just after mid-day on their final day of travel. Alexander is riding with Michael, Isobel and Rosa once more, after the seating assignments having been rotated between stops the day before- first Alexander had ridden with the ladies- a thoroughly enlightening handful of hours which had given him much greater insight into the frustrations they endured in society. Their conversation flowed freely around him, and he became uncomfortably aware of just how much women were entreated to suppress themselves and their interests in the company of men. Quite frankly, the topics they arrive at are equally interesting to many discussions at clubs and coffeehouses he’s been engaged in, and better argued. Elizabeth’s grasp on scientific inquiry far exceeds that of any gentleman he’s ever met, Rosa and Isobel engage in a great debate that he only realizes at the end of the discussion was begun about dress materials, as the bulk of the conversation centered on the pressures existing for the laboring forces, particularly women whether in shops or farms- certainly, Alex knows he and Michael couldn’t have told half so much about the origins and labor that produced their shirts and coats, and by the time the conversations turns to discussion of the Irish question, Alex considers that the entire nation might be better off if the Lords in Parliament left off governing and handed the debates over to their wives, whose decisions seem like they would at least benefit from the knowledge of what an experience it is to be governed without legal right to have input in their own destiny. Isobel in particular speaks vociferously at that, eyes flashing, and even Elizabeth who is a happily married woman expresses vehement concerns about the structures of society in this regard. By the end of the morning, he finds himself wishing that he had grown up with sisters, or at least cousins that were half so close as these. Certainly, he’d have gotten a better education surrounded by women such as these, instead of stodgy tutors and boarding school.

For a short while after stopping for Luncheon, Maxwell had joined them while Isobel claimed a seat beside Michael in the chaise, then instructed Alex to allow her his seat in the coach for the final leg of the day’s journey. He’s almost certain he’d seen her wink at him as he offered her his hand to climb into the coach. He’d been glad of the opportunity to pass a few hours alone with Michael- though the bench of the chaise is less well-padded, it affords a rare opportunity for them to speak freely, provided they lean in to be heart over the sound of the wheels on the road- and that affords several opportunities to touch discreetly- Michael’s fingertips brushing his on the seat, arms and knees meeting. Alex is so occupied by their proximity that he hardly recalls a word they say to each other in those hours, save those that relate to the plans Michael suggests for once they arrive at Fairhaven- most of which include detailing the parts of the house and grounds that Michael wants to show him- which bears substantial similarity to the second list Michael makes repeated note of, which are the places he wants to show Alex privately. That list is perhaps more detailed and lengthier than the first, and Alex delights in the audacity of it.

And now, as they drive through the winding road through the park, catching glimpses of the house itself across the vistas that appear so wild, but which Alex knows from conversation are carefully maintained to foster the impression of idyllic natural, some of those places come into focus. He catches a glimpse of the famed lake, and through the treetops, the rounded stone roof of the gazebo there, which Michael had highlighted the privacy of. Similarly, the folly built to appear as though it’s a tumbling down ruin partway up the distant hill catches his eye, and as they take the road that curves through the grand park, Michael points out the last of the follies that sit on either end of the duck pond- twin Hellenistic temples built in miniature and of rounded construction, commissioned by Michael’s father, but only recently finished - one dedicated to Apollo and the other to Artemis.

  
The house itself is stunning- added to and re-designed over the last few hundred years, with only the slightest hints of the original Tudor-era hunting lodge noticeable to to a discerning eye given to much scrutiny. The new renovations are done in the Palladian style, also, as it turns out, begun by Michael’s father from plans drawn up for the man’s great-grandfather during the previous century when the style had previously been in vogue, and the plans rumored to be from the hand of a young Inigo Jones himself.

There’s a bustle of activity as they step from the carriages, the greeting of the staff, and the unloading of the luggage. Michael’s attention is pulled in all manner of different directions, and even with Isobel and the others taking care of most of the concerns, they only manage a brief, partial tour of the house itself before it’s time to dress for dinner.

Alex is already aware that Guerin’s family takes a more continental view of evening entertainments- In London, the entire family is more likely to process to the drawing room for coffee or other beverages after dinner finishes, rather than ladies to the drawing room and men remaining at the table for brandy. Here in the country, he finds that they’re even more inclined to defy the norms of society, with Rosa sitting down at the harpsichord and regaling them all with a series of bawdy tunes, with promises that when the last of the guests intended to round out their numbers arrive a few weeks hence, her friend Miss DeLuca will have an even greater repertoire and that Dr. Valenti may be persuaded to bring out his fiddle to accompany them.

It’s as if all of their strings have come untangled, or even been cut away- they’re puppets moving to the whims of the ton no more, and allowed to be themselves. They’re all so much more relaxed at Fairhaven than they are in London, and it shows in the smallest of ways- how Isobel reclines on a divan to watch the impromptu concert, with little care as to looking composed, how Elizabeth and Maxwell spend a great deal of the evening tucked together on the same settee, clearly enjoying each other’s company in a way married people often seem disinclined to do. He notes that at a certain point, they stand and duck into the orangerie, re-emerging some moments later looking ever-so-slightly disheveled and unable to keep from smiling- it’s apparent that their brief retreat was intended as an opportunity steal a kiss or several in relative privacy. Certainly by the bemused looks exchanged during their absence, none of the party are the least bit disapproving of their sojourn. Alex experiences a pang of longing at the relative ease with which they can experience that acceptance.

Michael speaks low near his ear, their elbows brushing with how close he’s standing beside the bookshelf.

“If you’d care to, I could give you a tour of the orangery.” Despite the benign nature of his words, his tone makes it exceedingly clear that he’s not considering an academic sort of tour. “But I find that, after so much traveling in this last span of days, I am exceedingly inclined to to retire for the evening. Perhaps you are inclined to do the same.” His eyebrows rise meaningfully as he takes a sip from his glass.

Alex purses his lips as through he’s considering it, going along with the game and the devious glint in Guerin’s eye. He feigns wide-eyed, earnest innocence.

“I don’t know as that I fully recall the way back to my room, given that it’s such a large estate, and I haven’t yet benefited from the full tour. Perhaps you could show me the route to my chambers again?”

“I should be a terrible host if I did not,” Michael furrows his brow in mock solemnity.

They say their good-nights, which are hardly look askance at, and mount the grand stairs toward the first floor.

“As you can see, this is your room,” Michael points out solicitously, swinging the door open for him, then walking backward down the hall a short distance, and pausing a couple of rooms away. “And this is mine.” He bows with exaggerated formality. “Good night, Lord Manes.”

Alex is suddenly confused, but tries to follow along, carrying the same thread as he bows in turn and watches Michael disappear through the doorway. Has he misread the situation? Was Michael truly citing exhaustion downstairs? Troubled by his own uncertainty, he reluctantly steps into his own room, checking the hallway once more before closing the door, thinking that perhaps the seeming change in the night’s agenda has to do with them being observed.

With the prospect of a more open night than he had anticipated, he looks around his room, familiarizing himself with the pale blue walls and the ornate plasterwork. He’s just begin wondering if he might have a book available at hand when there’s a knock at what he had taken for a closet door. Swinging it open, he finds Michael leaning against the door frame.

“The space between our chambers is of course, a dressing room. I’m afraid I may have neglected to mention that. Conveniently, it adjoins to both chambers. Isobel and Rosa’s rooms across the way have a similar set-up, though Isobel’s is outfitted as a sitting room instead. They find it most convenient.”

“Are they…” he cuts himself off, unable to think of how to phrase his question. “That is, I’ve been meaning to ask if Isobel and Rosa are…”

“Like us?” Michael supplies. Alex nods.

“Most assuredly. For a number of years now, in fact.”

“I had wondered,” Alex says, turning it over in his mind- the idea of years, living far closer to one’s truth than hardly anyone realized.

“They don’t mind you knowing, to be sure- but do keep their confidence as you would desire them to keep yours.”

“Do they know about…us?” He doesn’t have the words to describe what lies between them. Michael looks at him expectantly, and when he answers his tone is wry.”

“Isobel came to your townhouse to convince you to come an speak with me. I believe she might well have known before we did.” 

“I’m inclined to believe that ,” Alex has to agree, laughing at the idea.

“I’m inclined to want to kiss you,” Michael says seriously.

Alex licks his lips, nervous anticipation fluttering in his chest with the knowledge that now, this night, is what everything has been building toward.

“I want you to,” he says, the words clear and distinct. He feels shivery and lightheaded with the clarity of being so direct, but he’s certain. And when Michael bring his hand up to draw Alex in, guiding their mouths together, Alex has never been so certain of anything, or so terrified of that certainty.

It’s overwhelming, the perfection and promise of this kiss, the incredible surge of emotion he is unaccustomed to feeling. This isn’t meeting a need or slaking a desire- this is something altogether different. He feels naked, stripped bare despite being fully clothed. Here, with locked doors between them and the rest of the world, he can feel the quiet of the great house settling around them, can catch and savor every eager hitch of Michael’s breath, every slight sound that conveys his pleasure and collect them.

He can collect the sensations too- the slight scratch of stubble on Michael’s jaw, the startling silkiness of his curls as he traces his hand up Michael’s jaw and sinks it into his hair, kissing him back, pouring months of yearning into the kiss. There are other sensations that thrill him, most of which he expects or has imagined in detail- the way that the heat of Michael’s body seeps through his clothes, stirring his blood- the strength retrained in Michael’s limbs and in his own, the rush it is to feel the flat, muscular planes of Michael’s chest under his hand, the textures of silk and linen that clothe it.

There are other sensations he didn’t know would excite him- the way he can feel the buttons on Michael’s waistcoat digging into his stomach as they press together, or the way that each pleasured sound Michael makes when Alex’s fingers curl in his hair or brush his throat goes directly to his cock, making it stir and take even greater interest in the current proceedings, the way Michael’s eyes flash tawny gold when he makes Alex gasp- the intensity of which makes it an even greater struggle to regain his breath.

It’s Alex who shoves at Michael’s coat first, pushing it off his shoulders. Michael shrugs out of it with an elegance Alex doesn’t think he himself could manage at the moment. Indeed, as he attempts to divest himself of his own coat, he feels his hands tangle in the sleeves, prolonging the time where he’s not touching Michael- a deficit which feels nearly unbearable.

Michael reaches for him, curves his elegant fingers around the back of Alex’s neck and pulls them flush once more. There’s an edge of eagerness, of desperation between them now, and a hunger to their kisses.

“Bed,” Michael gasps out against his mouth.

“Yes,” Alex agrees emphatically.

Michael presses a kiss to the hinge of his jaw, nips a trail of of them down his throat.

“But which one?”

“Whichever is your preference,” Alex gasps. Michael ceases his ministrations to look Alex in the eye.

“I’ve imagined you in my bed since the first night I met you, out there in the garden in the winter air,” Michael tells him seriously. “Every time I saw you in candlelight- every concert, every play, every ball…I wanted to see you laid out in my bed in the same candlelight. The thought drove me to distraction so many nights. I never dared allow myself to do more than dream- at least until a few days ago. But now, if I’m to have a choice…”

“You do. Your bed,” Alex affirms, his chest constricting with sudden breathlessness. It thrills him, the idea of being taken to bed by the Lord of the Manor—of this manor in particular, because he’s well-aware that he doesn’t want this with just any member of the peerage- he wants this with Michael. What’s more, to know that Michael’s desire for him extends back to the first moments they met- extends as far back as his own does, he doesn’t have the words to express in the present. So he tries to convey it with his body, his lips, his hands, loosening Guerin’s cravat with nervous fingers and bringing his hands back to unfasten the buttons at Guerin’s throat once the artfully tied cloth drifts to the floor to be forgotten until morning.

Michael leads him into his bedchamber, draws him to the bed itself. They undress each other in the light of the candles and the fire- built up because wile the days are warm, the nights still bring a chill. Lips aching with use but unwilling to draw apart, they place reverent touches on each new bit of flesh revealed. Alex is torn in every moment between allowing himself to drown in kisses, look his fill at the sight of Michael disrobing, or allow his fingertips to skate over each bit of newly-bared skin.

Once they’re both nude, Alex lays back in the bed, never breaking eye contact. Michael leans over him, blankets Alex’s body with his own. Words are unnecessary in that moment.

The slide of skin on skin as they come together is incredible— sensuous and indulgent and so different than hurried trysts he’s made do with in the past. It strikes him, between one slow, honeyed kiss and another that this is something else entirely. Michael aligns their cockstands at that moment, and all further thought is chased from his mind. His world becomes of haze of sensation and lust, of clutching another man’s body and urging him to continue, at least until Michael wraps his hand around both of them together, working them until Alex can’t hold back another moment, gasping out a warning of his release with a muffled cry. 

Michael follows moments after him, spending across his body, the proof of their pleasure mingling on Alex’s belly until Michael brings a cloth to wipe him clean.

He has a moment of thinking that he should return to his own chamber, put on his nightclothes at least- but Michael steers him from that thinking as deftly as he steers a team of horses, tugging the coverlet aside and dragging it back over their naked bodies, urging Alex to lean back against him. He presses a kiss to Alex’s shoulder, lets his hand come to rest on Alex’s hip. Exhausted and sated, Alex allows sleep to claim him, strangely content with the impossibility of this, and thoroughly disregarding assessments as to the wisdom of the idea.

  
In the morning, he’s woken by the brightness of the sun streaming in the windows, and the unfamiliar sensation of waking beside another person- another person whose limbs sprawl and tangle around him beneath fine sheets and whose interest in a repeat of the previous night’s activities is made altogether apparent by the press of his cockstand against Alex’s hip- the recognition of which elicits an altogether similar response from his own body. He’s become a wealthy man in the past year, sampled many types of delights and delicacies. But this is by far the most decadent thing he’s ever experienced— waking in the arms of his lover, being able to turn to him for a sleep-laden kiss that becomes a long, slow rut beneath the bedclothes, taking their pleasure from each other again while they share lingering kisses and turn the bed into a rumpled mess.

The most astonishing thing is that it’s not an isolated event. Alex doesn’t spend a single night in his own bed the entire summer. Days are spent with the people who have become his dearest friends, and the nights…the night are spent with his lover. There are nights near the solstice where darkness falls so late that they go to bed before full dark, lighting their lovemaking with the deepening twilight of a sky gone purple outside, nights that they exhaust themselves in slow, sensual explorations of each others bodies, mapping every scar, muscle, and imperfection by touch alone, only to wake with the daylight and retrace the same paths again. It’s a good thing that Fairhaven is a grand enough estate to employ a dedicated laundress- for the sheets, and because they don’t always confine their adventures to Michael’s bedchamber. One memorable night, Michael pulls him into the Orangerie after dinner, kissing him breathless with laughter, and then a different type of breathless entirely when he’d dropped to his knees and taken Alex in his mouth, not letting up until Alex’s breath echoed loudly against the brick and glass and he had spent in Michael’s mouth.

The mock-naval battle had occurred a fortnight into the trip as promised, and Alex had determined himself to have won twice over—both because he, Rosa, Elizabeth, and Dr. Valenti had emerged victorious, but also because their victory had included upsetting the other party’s raft enough that it hand tumbled them all into the shallow water, and Alex had gotten to witness the truly inspiring sight that was Michael standing thigh-deep in water, clothing plastered to him as rivulets of water streamed down his body, dripping back into the lake. The only regrettable thing was that he hadn’t been able to help Michael from his sodden clothes, as the task had fallen to his valet so that Michael could dress for dinner. 

Such was not the case at the end of July, however. A lovely summer picnic with Rosa and Isobel had been interrupted by a sudden summer rainstorm. They’d been discussing the ominous skies, and the need to pack up the picnic posthaste when a clap of thunder sounded, and massive drops of rain began to fall, even as the sun still shone. With shrieks of surprise, they had attempted to pile the dishes into the basket Mrs. Campbell had provided, but quickly gave up as the skies darkened aboves them and unleashed a torrent of rain. “The temples!” Isobel had shouted, strands of her hair clinging in wet tendrils to her forehead, and they had all nodded over the heavy fall of the rain— there was certainly no sense in trying to get back to the house, but the temples were only a few hundred feet away from their picnic spot and would provide some shelter. 

They’d abandoned the picnic basket and made haste to the stone buildings— but several steps on, Alex had realized that while he and Michael were heading to the temple of Apollo, Isobel and Rosa had run toward the building’s twin- the temple of Artemis. And so, once they reached the building, Alex had thrown caution to the wind, trusting the heavy curtain of rain to obscure anyone’s view, and pulled Michael to him, the heat of his lips searingly hot in contrast to the rain. They were both nearly soaked through to the skin by that point, but stopping to kiss in the rain left no doubt as to the matter. Inside the temple, they had pulled and tugged at clinging, sopping clothing, hands skating over rain-slicked clothes and skin, kissing desperately even as Alex had lain Michael out on the discarded garments and made an alter of his body, an offering of their pleasure under the approving eye of a god whose male lovers even the Christian churches couldn’t fully make fade out of myth. If he hadn’t already known he was in love with Michael, he would have had to admit the truth of it that day, hearing his name spoken with such reverence upon Michael’s lips, reading the promise of it in their bodies.

But time stops for no man, and as September comes around and begins to pass them by as well, he becomes aware that they must discuss a transition back to London for the season. He puts it off when he knows he should face it head-on, because he doesn’t want to contemplate the end of this joyous folly.

It’s not just Michael and the nights they spend making love together, though. It’s not merely the giddy, stolen kisses they sneak in nearly every conceivable place on the grounds, or the soaring feeling of being in love and getting to let that flame grow stronger. It’s everything about Fairhaven— the trust everyone there seems to feel with one another, the agreement to set aside social conventions that do them no benefit. It’s the picnics in the lawn, riding through the fields, dancing at midnight, playing games of cards and chance until the wee hours of the morning, the telling of fortunes and planning of pageants to amuse one another, the laughter and camaraderie, and the sense that there’s some measure of safety to be had, though they still remain largely discreet.

The prospect of returning to London seems dry and dull and dismaying in comparison. Stifling, really. When he thinks about returning to his townhouse there, to the duties of Parliament, he thinks about how it means scrutiny and loneliness. It means being apart from Michael, no longer waking up each day to see his head on the next pillow, no shared glances between them over breakfast, or sharing the newspaper over the same meal, being careful to make sure that casual touches they’ve become accustomed to aren’t too familiar.

They’ve avoided discussing the future, but According to Max, Michael has already delayed their usual discussion of preparations for return by nearly two weeks, and when Alex brings it up with him one night, he looks pained and simply says, “Not yet. I refuse to lose this yet,” pressing Alex up against the wall with achingly tender kisses that threaten to bring them both to tears as he savors Alex’s body. 

Because that’s the crux of it. Even if they can sneak around, make excuses and carve out chances to spend the night together on rare occasion, there’s gossip and rumor to worry about, appearances to keep up. And as challenging as it was not to reach for Michael all those months ago, it feels so much more difficult now, the stakes so much higher. A single mistake- an incorrect estimation of the risk they face, and everything will come crashing down, questions raised that they have no answers to. Ending this, even for the duration of the Season will break them both, but the risks inherent in trying to be what they are to each other and carry on from separate houses are simply too great. Every solution he can imagine comes down to the same concern— they simply raise too many questions, spark too many rumors. Staying in the country together, inviting everyone to stay in his townhouse (not to mention that that solution— indeed, most of the solutions— require sneaking around beneath the noses of his brother and his sister-in-law. Despite how lovely they are, Alex has no intention of telling them and gambling everything on the assumption that they will accept any part of this). Secrecy is in fact their only security, and try as he might, he can’t spin any fiction that will protect them enough. And so he spends his time savoring everything about life at Fairhaven, and mourning its loss before it draws to a close.

Naturally, it’s Isobel who finds the solution.


	7. Chapter 7

“We should get married.”

They’re playing Whist, he and Michael against Isobel and Rosa in the library, as plans for lawn-bowling had been canceled on account of the grey skies and incessant spitting drizzle. The chill in the air had also necessitated the lighting of a fire in the grate. It’s only the four of them in room, as Elizabeth and Dr. Valenti had gone off to the greenhouse after some debate about the botanical principles of some plant from the Americas nearly an hour ago, Max had taken his novel into the study, and Maria was finishing some correspondence in the morning room.

Alex coughs in surprise, and nearly ends up misplaying.

“Beg pardon?” he asks. He’s not even sure which of them Isobel has effectively just proposed to.

“Iz, you hate marriage and have no intention of ever remarrying,” Michael reminds her, laying his own card. Strangely, Rosa keeps her eyes on her cards and contributes no protestations.

“That’s true.” Isobel lays her card and crosses her arms on the table. “I have no desire to ever again be beholden to a man, to lose the independence I’ve gained as a widow, or to ever lose control of my own funds again. But my considerations aren’t limited to myself.” She casts a glance across the table. “There’s Rosa to think of.”

Rosa blushes as both Michael and Alex turn to her as well.

“My…situation remains a bit uncertain,” she allows.

“Rosa has no dowry, but also no income should I die. Which I have no plans of doing, but…if either one of us were a man, we could be married and she would be provided for should something befall me, because I would see to it. If she were a married woman, Men would stop sniffing around her, assuming she would accept their suit because they have a little money and she has none, or that she’ll be desperate enough to consider them so as not to be a spinster. They’d stop sniffing around me too for that matter, as a wealthy enough widow. We would be able to live together in the way we desire.”

Play has ceased, to Isobel sets her cards aside.

“If either of you were a woman, you could be married in the eyes of the law and live together without scrutiny. I see the way you look at each other- you cannot tell me you wouldn’t welcome that. But because we are women and you are men, there’s no provision in the law for us, save codification of punishment. But what if we were to imagine another way?” she rummages through the cards from the tricks she has collected and sets out two kings and a queen. Wordlessly, Rosa plucks another queen from her hand and holds it out to Isobel. Isobel sets the queens together in one stack and the queens in another.

“Imagine these are the four of us, paired as we desire. Yet society does not allow for it. However…”

She separates the pair of kings so they are side-by-side and sets a queen over the bottom corner of each so that despite overlapping the kings, the queens are still parallel to each other.

“If we were to marry each other…”

“We’d have a set of marriages that would be accepted by society,” Michael surmises.

“Not just that,” Rosa says quietly. “If Alex were to wed Isobel, and Michael married me…we’d be bound as family under the eyes of the law— able to travel together, live together even without comment. No one will find in strange if sister-in-law or brothers-in-law keep each other’s company, and since Isobel and Michael are cousins who are as close as siblings already…”

“We could stay at Fairhaven every summer- not as guests, but as family,” Isobel puts forward. “And perhaps more importantly…We can stay under the same roof in London without inviting scandal and scrutiny. No one will care if Alex acquiesces to his wife’s desire to stay with her family, or if Michael brings his wife to stay with his cousin’s new family. No one will care what we do if they think we are happy couples following their endless rules.

And if no one thinks to ask questions, we’re free to do as we please without the threat of discovery leading to exile or worse. Once we accept that this solves all of our present problems, it’s really just a matter of marriage settlements. Michael will be able to negotiate on his own behalf, and Max’s being Rosa’s brother-in-law already can negotiate on hers. Alex can negotiate on his own behalf as well, and Max can pretend to stand in to advise me. That reprehensible cousin of my late husband’s can’t touch any of my pin money or the dowager income from my marriage, much as he tries. Even if I remarry. I made sure of that. So I can provide for Rosa and myself while I live. But I have nothing I can settle on her when I die- it all reverts back to his estate with my death.”   
She holds Michael’s gaze. “And a promise that you’ll settle something on her in my stead doesn’t go far if you and Alex are discovered and you’re stripped of your wealth and titles as you have to flee to another continent and so aren’t around to help anyone, should the need arise.” Her arch look silences whatever assurance Michael was about to make. “So we shall have very different marriage settlements, if we pursue this scheme. Rosa will be provided for with a substantial dowager’s share…and I shall retain my own incomes in addition to whatever the terms of Alex’s inheritance allow.”

“I…it’s a brilliant idea,” Michael allows, “But also something of an extreme one, don’t you think? You can’t just…go around proposing to people without warning.”

“I’m afraid I’ve done something even more impolite, dear cousin. I’ve essentially proposed marriage on your behalf. Either way you slice it, really.”

Michel’s eyes flicker to Rosa, then lock on Alex. His face pales. 

Alex can’t take it any more, can’t bear to see the panic and rejection in Michael’s eyes when he’s just beginning to see the merit of the plan, so he excuses himself and hastens from the room.

“Well, that could have gone better,” he hears Isobel admit as he opens the door and crosses the threshold into the Hall.

“I’m not sure how you thought it could have, springing it on us like this.” Michael’s voice is full of uncharacteristic ire. “After what you went through to be free of your last husband, the hell you endured… to want to give it all up? Every bit of independence you managed to claw from him? I’d understand if it was for love. I’d still think it’s rash. But I’d understand it. But for convenience? That I don’t understand.”

“Damnation, Michael, this is love, it isn’t convenience,” Isobel spits out. “I have convenience, or as a close to it as a woman is allowed to get. It’s damned inconvenient, actually, proposing marriage to a man I like well enough, who I would readily think of as a brother if it came to it…but whom I don’t love in a husbandly way, and who I have to cede my financial independence to so I can provide some security-by-proxy for the person I actually do love, because this damned society we live in says I can’t offer her a marriage with me! I should think you might have some similar insight.”

“It’s like looking in a damn mirror,” Michael agrees heatedly. ‘You think I don’t know what it is to want a life with someone I’m not allowed to have it with? I feel that way every damn day, same as you both do. I just don’t know why you’d suddenly risk your financial independence when you and Rosa have been going along just fine until now. I’ll call for my solicitor when we’re back in London, settle a sum on Rosa if that’s what you want, we you can leave marriage out of it.”

“That’s not the only problem Isobel is trying to solve,” Rosa says resolutely.

“Yes, well, thank you for that. I don’t know if you noticed, but Alex practically bolted out of here after you proposed this marriage scheme, so I don’t know that he wants to be tied to our family for a lifetime. Regardless of how I feel about wanting a life with him, he may not share those feelings.” Michael tosses his cards on the table, a gesture of resignation that Alex can see because his feet have already carried him back into the library.

“He most certainly does.”

Michael’s head snaps up, hope bright in his eyes. He stands as Alex approaches.

“Isobel,” Alex says, his gaze intent on Michael and never straying. “My answer is yes. If it’s what you want, I’ll marry you.”

Michael steps to him, far, far closer than propriety allows- but they have little use for propriety in the moment.

“I’ve known I wanted to share my life with you almost from the first moment I met you. Of course I want to marry you, whether it’s allowed or no. I’m just…not certain about the idea of my cousin being my proxy.”

“I don’t wish to seem ungrateful,” Rosa puts in dryly, “or to imply that I’m not fully willing to to this. But I will point out that I’ve already passed up the chance to marry Michael once before, and that was before I live with him day in and day out. So if we’re complaining about proxies…”

“And still you’re willing to put up with this insufferable man in order to be with me,” Isobel teases, her fingers twining with Rosa’s as they rise and come to where Alex and Michael stand near the fire.

“You know,” she says gently, “if we plan it right, it can be a double wedding. All four of us, standing before the Pastor, speaking our vows in the hearing of the person we love— the person we actually mean them for, even if the Pastor has no idea the truth of it.

“You’ve thought of all the details, haven’t you?” Alex asks.

“Twice over,” Isobel smirks. “It’s even possible, if we apply for a license right away instead of having the banns read, that we could do it before we return to London. So the question is, what do you each think?”

Alex meets Michael’s eye over Isobel’s head.

“I think that someone at the club ought to have placed a wager in the betting book that Lord Guerin being wed within the year. They might stand to make a terribly large amount of money.”

“Indeed they would,” Michael agrees, the heat of his gaze far warmer than the heat of the fire. “This plan, cockamamie and harebrained as it is, actually does resolve nearly all of our problems, so in the end, it seems I’m for it. And having given my approval, if our lovely new fiancees will forgive us, it occurs to me that I have a wedding night to practice for. He tugs Alex toward the door, and the stairs beyond that. 

Rosa glaces to Isobel with a mischievous smirk.

“It occurs to me that we do as well.”

There’s only a second’s pause before Isobel’s eyes light up and they dash for the door as well, racing up the steps so that they overtake the men at the landing, reaching the door to Isobel’s sitting room in a flurry of skirts and laughter, and waving cheerfully across the grand hallway, shutting the door just as Alex fumbles the door across the hall open, Michael’s hand on his hip.

“Everyone is going to wonder where we’ve all run off to,” Alex admonishes once they’ve crossed the threshold, his concern somewhat undermined by the way his hands are already undoing Michael’s buttons and pulling his shirt free from his breeches.

“Let the rest of the family wonder,” Michael says, pressing his back against the door. “I have a bridegroom to seduce.”

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: 
> 
> Two characters who are both Queer (in today's terminology) frankly discuss examples of people prosecuted and executed for sodomy in this time period, and make reference to how this impacted them.
> 
> Our villain attempts to threaten/blackmail/publicly out one of our characters
> 
> Characters frankly discuss the socioeconomic limitations placed on women in marriage, and past abuse within that context.
> 
> There is a marriage of convenience plot that allows some characters to come as close to the regency romance Happily-Ever-After trope that laws of the era allow


End file.
